Built to last
by Bookjunk
Summary: When Dean first meets Castiel David, he doesn't care for him at all. However, when the construction worker and architect are forced to work together because accidents keep occurring at their workplace something slowly develops between the two men. AU
1. The architect

**Chapter 1: The architect**

The sign said 'Crowley Constructions' and what it meant to Dean was work. Work that he liked and was good at. Plus, it was summer, so Sam was there with him. Dean had given up trying to convince Sam that he was better off doing some paralegal stuff. His brother didn't listen and Dean had to admit that construction paid better. Apparently, being a paralegal was a crappy thankless job, where the abuse piled up and the salary was just another insult.

The two brothers stared briefly at the sketch underneath the company's name on the sign, before returning to work. It never failed to amaze Dean. The sketch painted a beautiful illusion. There was modernity; glass and steel, but there were also wonderful wooden beams supporting the structure. It was like the old-fashioned timberwork of past times and the thick metal pillars of the 21st century had put their hands together and finally decided to work together. And work together they did. They created a sense of family and community in the midst of a cold and impersonal city.

Dean remembered the first time he'd seen the sketch. He had thought, cynically, that it was too good to be true. Clearly, someone's imagination had gone a little crazy and this was the result. Most of the construction sites that Dean had worked at had featured hazy sketches of apartment buildings, skyscrapers or condos. These were technically also condos, but they were more. For the first time in a long while Dean had felt he was helping to build not houses, but homes. It had made him feel proud. It had made him want to meet the man who had designed all of it.

Balthazar, the site supervisor, knew him. Mr. David, Balthazar always called him. There was something mocking about the way Balthazar said his name and Dean wanted to know why that was. He didn't even know whether David was his first or last name. Balthazar called Dean Mr. Winchester, but Sam was Mr. Sam. He said it was to prevent confusion, but with Balthazar you could never be sure. The supervisor was always messing about.

Mystery David or David Surname-Unknown occasionally came to the construction site, according to Balthazar. However, Dean had not had the pleasure of meeting him yet. Somehow, he thought it would be a pleasure. It was irrational, really, because nine out of ten people Dean met he didn't care for. That's what Sam would say anyway; _I don't care for him_. In Dean's words, the condemnation would be a bit stronger and a bit more profane. Something along the lines of; _he's a fucking idiot_ or maybe _I can't stand the sight of that bastard._

That the guy visited the construction site was special in and of itself. Dean had only met a few architects, but they had been pretty much the same. They cared about the vision; not about reality. They didn't want to know about the dirt and dust and the workplace accidents and the impossibilities.

One architect had kept insisting that they not put in the beams that were necessary to keep the building upright, because they were not aesthetically pleasing. Dean had been forced to dig his heel into his own toes to keep from blurting out that a collapsed building wasn't aesthetically pleasing either. What a grade A moron that had been.

It started to rain softly. Dean took off his hard hat, knowing that Sam would bitch if he saw it, and scratched his head. Quickly, he put the hat back on. His brother was not above ratting Dean out to Balthazar, which would mean having to listen to a lecture about safety in the workplace for at least ten minutes.

The first condo was almost ready. The construction on it was finished. Now only indoor shit needed to be done and then they would bring in an interior decorator. It was important to get photos of the outside and inside out as soon as possible. A good deal of the condos had already been sold, but Dean knew that a few good pictures could work miracles. Hell, he'd want to live here if someone shoved some glossy photos under his nose. Without those too, but he couldn't afford it. Not even close.

The supporting metal beams were humming. Not groaning or whining; sounds that were common. Groaning meant they were settling. That was not a cause for concern. Whining was also not dangerous, though it could be disconcerting. Dean hadn't heard the humming before. Maybe it was the insanely warm weather. It was early June and it was like the fucking tropics. The rain cooled him a little, but that was about it. The other guys didn't seem worried, so Dean set his mind at rest. He would mention the humming to Balthazar later.

Unconsciously, he looked around and found the supervisor. He was standing a little way away under a shoddy canopy pointing something out on a large drawing. Next to him stood a guy with a blue hat. Blue; that meant – Dean had to think for a moment – technical advisor. The man had a potbelly and an impressive moustache. On Balthazar's other side stood someone wearing a yellow hat, but he was not a construction worker. Even if the man hadn't been wearing a trench coat, Dean would have known.

The black hair that peeked out from under the helmet was matted and Dean could see the exceptionally blue eyes, even through the rain. The man was skinny. Dean wanted to say lean, because it was more complimentary, but the guy was really skinny. Sinewy, yet strong, Dean thought. He realised he was staring at the man and averted his gaze.

'D'you think that's the architect?' Sam asked, panting. Dean shrugged. Only one way to find out. Maybe he needed to tell Balthazar about that humming sound right now. Slowly, attempting to avoid the puddles that were starting to form on the ground, Dean approached the canopy. Sam followed, but Dean didn't notice. The man, who was possibly the architect, was arguing with the technical advisor. Balthazar stood by and Dean could see the smile tugging at his lips as the argument got louder.

'Hi, I'm Dean,' he broke in. Annoyed, the man turned around and stared at him. The technical advisor seemed relieved at the interruption.

'So?' the man said. His voice was much deeper than Dean had expected. It was gravelly, yet smooth. Very mature, though up close the man looked younger than Dean. Maybe it wasn't the architect, but Balthazar answered Dean's questioning look with a firm nod.

'I just wanted to say I really like the design. It's pretty awesome,' Dean offered. The man did nothing to disguise his disdain for everything Dean said. He barely managed to keep from rolling his eyes as he gave Dean the once over.

'Awesome? I'm so glad it has earned your approval,' the man gushed. To say that his answer availed itself of sarcasm was putting it mildly. Balthazar chuckled and looked at Dean. Your fault for interrupting the important architect, his apologetic shrug seemed to say.

'Manners, Castiel,' the supervisor chided. He winked at Dean and Sam. Apparently, Castiel's rudeness amused Balthazar to no end. Dean just thought that Castiel David was a fucking asshole. Apologies; _Dean didn't care for him_. Polite pause. Because he was a fucking asshole.

'I don't have time to be polite. Polite is for idiots and construction workers. But I repeat myself,' Castiel replied, curtly. Completely ignoring Dean, he focused again on the drawing. It was a very detailed drawing of every aspect of one condo, Dean now saw. Behind Dean, Sam stirred.

'Mark Twain, right?' Sam asked. Castiel swivelled round and scrutinised the younger Winchester. Dean was curious to see whether Mr. big shot architect would also insult his brother. Sam didn't look like a law student. At all. He was wide across the chest and a tall son of a bitch. Of course, he was a total wimp, but only Dean knew that. If Dean hadn't known that and he met Sam on the street he'd think twice before risking the chance of pissing him off.

'Oh no, one of them can read. They will stage a revolution. It'll be like Animal Farm,' Castiel taunted. This earned him a jab in the stomach from Balthazar. The two men were obviously friends. Though, why anyone would want to be friends with this jerk was beyond Dean.

'Castiel, don't upset the workers,' Balthazar warned, but he was laughing.

'Don't you mean serfs?' Castiel remarked. The derision in his words was not lost on Dean. So, even though Dean didn't know what serfs were, he was pretty sure it was not a compliment. Dean had had quite enough of the architect's abuse, so he mumbled something vague about humming beams and left. Sam trailed him and Dean could practically feel his brother's excitement. Literary references always got Sam all hot and bothered. It was disturbing. Why couldn't Sam just appreciate a nice ass, like normal people?

They reached the second condo together. Sam started to gather some material. Pausing in the doorway, Dean took off his hard hat again. His head was itchy and sweaty. Stupid hat. Stupid temperature. Suddenly, an extreme wrenching sound ripped through the air above him and a loud snap followed. Someone screamed at him and he was knocked off his feet.

There was an awful rush and rumble and when he painfully landed Dean realised the beam had snapped and taken the condo down with it. Luckily, Dean was lying outside in the wet sand. His head hurt and he quickly looked around to see whether Sam was alright. His brother was kneeling next to him. Sam seemed unscathed. Dean was also fine.

'Thanks for pushing me, I guess,' Dean croaked at Sam. His voice was hoarse. He accepted his brother's hand and clambered to his feet.

'I didn't,' Sam said, 'He did.' He moved aside to afford Dean an unobstructed view of his saviour. Castiel's face was twisted in fury and he held his right arm tight against his body. The technical advisor's face was pale and Balthazar also looked shocked. They were fussing over Castiel and he pushed them away with his other arm. The other workers were gathering round, some running over to see what had happened. Castiel approached him and Dean could now see blood streaming across the side of his face.

'Why'd you save me?'

'Because I'm wearing a fucking helmet; unlike you, douche bag.'

(***)

Mark Twain once wrote: 'Suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself.'

_Animal Farm_ is a novel by George Orwell, detailing the revolution of farm animals against communism.


	2. Bend and break

**Chapter 2: Bend and break**

When Dean woke up the next day, it was to a heavy pounding noise. First he thought it was his lingering headache, but it wasn't that severe. Eventually, he figured out that someone was doing a decent job of trying to break down his front door. He dragged himself out of bed, too annoyed at being woken to put on anything except his boxers, and opened the door.

'Put on some clothes. What if it had been Pamela?' Sam suggested as he bounced into the living room.

'What if it had?' Dean muttered. Sam blushed as he realised his mistake and disappeared into the kitchen. Dean heard the coffeemaker come to live and it mollified him slightly. Sam was always pestering him about Pamela.

_Dean, she's still in love with you. Dean, you're stringing her along. Dean, you have to tell her there's no hope for the two of you._

It was exhausting. Mostly, because none of those accusations were even remotely true. Pamela had been Dean's first and only girlfriend and she had known Dean was gay before Dean did. So, they had decided to be friends and they still were. No one was stringing anyone along. Something about having Pamela live only two doors down the hall from Dean seemed to irk Sam. Dean just thought it was nice. Whenever he had enough of Sam's cheery optimism and never ending book review talks, Dean went to see Pamela. They'd drink and listen to sports on the radio or simply grouse.

Pamela could grouse with the best of them. To be fair, she had reason to grouse. Most of the time, Dean hardly remembered she was blind and Pamela dealt with it like a pro, but it must still be a son of a bitch to live with.

'Why are you even here?' Dean directed the question to Sam's back as he shuffled into the kitchen. Not that he didn't appreciate the coffee, but he liked his Sunday mornings a little less chipper. For some reason Sam spent more time at Deans apartment than at his own. Granted, Dean's place was bigger, but Sam's was much cleaner and cosier and decidedly uncluttered. Sam put a steaming mug in front of Dean and leaned back against the counter.

'Balthazar called me. Apparently, Castiel's injuries were more serious than was initially thought. His arm is broken and he's also got a concussion. They're still keeping him at the hospital today. I gather he was being a bit of a nuisance.'

'So, you thought it was a good idea to bother me with an update about the health of my least favourite person?' Dean asked. He was going to have to go visit Castiel, wasn't he? Due to the whole saving his life thing. Damn it! Irritated at the prospect, Dean took a quick sip and burned his tongue. Without saying anything, Sam filled a glass with water and handed it to Dean. Grateful, Dean drank some of it.

'He's a big old meanie, but I like him,' Sam admitted. Trying not to roll his eyes, Dean drank some more water. His tongue was starting to feel better.

'Of course you do,' he said. Mention something bookish and you earned Sam's undying devotion. Hell, Dean bet that even a reference to _Twilight_ – a series that Sam claimed to hate, but secretly owned all four novels of – would excite Sam.

'What the hell does that mean?' Sam retorted, slightly raising his voice. It was too early for this shit, Dean thought, but he played along nonetheless.

'It means whatever the hell you want it to mean,' Dean repeated, as he had done numerous times before.

'You sayin'...' Sam began, but he cracked up before he could finish. Dean merely watched his brother clutch his stomach and laugh. In a way it was comforting, because it was like Sam's off button. No matter how serious the fight they were having, all Dean had to do was segue into Seinfeld territory and Sam would be reduced to giggling.

'Really, dude? Still?' Dean asked. His brother panted and dried his eyes.

'It's just... Seinfeld gets me every time,' Sam explained. He appeared a tad embarrassed, which was only to be expected. Dean picked up the conversation where they'd left off.

'It means you always like people that go literary. That Mark Twain comment did it.'

The coffee had graduated from scalding hot to pleasurably warm by now, but Dean still took a cautious sip. Ah, that was fantastic. When he closed his eyes, Dean could almost imagine that Sam wasn't here, that they weren't having this talk at a time in the morning when he was barely fit to stand up and that he didn't have to go visit a certain person in the hospital.

'He also mentioned Animal Farm,' Sam said, ruining the nice illusion Dean had going. Dean opened his eyes and made a gesture to indicate it all just went straight over his head. Disapproving, Sam shook his head and sighed.

'You should read more,' Sam suggested.

'I should read, period,' Dean dryly replied. Leaving Sam in the kitchen, he went into the bedroom. If he was going to have to visit Castiel, he might as well get it over with. Dean threw some clothes on or rather; he tried to. Somehow he ended up picking apart his entire wardrobe, which wasn't much to begin with. He asked himself what the hell he was doing. He was behaving as if he was a teenage girl about to go on her first date, while he was actually going to see a person he didn't like. To counteract his ridiculous behaviour he decided to focus on how much he didn't like Castiel.

'Castiel is an asshole,' Dean hollered to Sam. After a brief silence, Sam answered.

'He's attractive,' his brother's voice insisted, which made Dean sigh. True. Those eyes, his lanky frame, the pale skin... But still, you know; _asshole._

'I did attractive and asshole; it didn't work out so well,' Dean yelled back. Just jeans and a shirt were good enough. Dean sniffed them. Yep, they'd do.

'Yet, you saw fit to make that mistake several times,' Sam's voice reminded him. Again true. These sorts of talks would be a lot easier if Sam didn't know him so well. Then Dean could lie about having all sorts of healthy relationships with nice men and Sam would be none the wiser. Sam might actually take Dean's dating advice to heart too, instead of chuckling derisively whenever Dean tried to offer it now.

'Shut up, Sam,' Dean snapped as he walked into the living room. Sam was sprawled across the couch as if he owned the place. Dean quickly hustled his brother off the furniture and out of the apartment. When Dean locked the door behind him, Sam kept standing there in the hallway. He seemed to be waiting for something, but Dean had no idea what it could be.

'You're not bringing your wallet? You're not going to buy him anything?' Sam finally asked. Dean pressed the button of the elevator and looked back at his hesitating brother.

'Why?'

'When visiting a person in the hospital, someone who in this case has perhaps saved your life, it is customary...' Sam began, but impatiently Dean cut him off. He nudged Sam into the elevator, against Sam's protests. Frowning, Dean registered that Sam kept glancing at Pamela's door until the doors of the elevator slid closed. What was that about?

'Yeah, yeah. No, I'm not getting him something. Whatever it is, he would just mock it,' Dean said. Chocolates, a balloon, flowers? Mock, mock, mock. That was a bit weird. He felt that assessment was correct, but he didn't even know Castiel. I mean, Dean thought, the guy insulted me approximately five times in less than a minute, but that didn't qualify as getting to know someone. That qualified as verbal abuse.

'You're probably right. Are you doing something tonight?' Sam asked as they walked to their respective cars. Dean's shiny, impeccable Impala and Sam's rusted, dented piece of crap. It was hard for Dean to even refer to it as a car. He was always urging his brother to spend some money and buy a real car. Sam was on a full scholarship, so it was a mystery to Dean why Sam couldn't afford a better car. Knowing Sam, he blew the money from all his side jobs on books.

'Pizzas at Pamela; you can come if you want to,' Dean answered and he watched puzzled as Sam nervously bit his lower lip.

'Yeah, sure. I mean, whatever, maybe. I'm busy today, but if I don't have something else this evening...' Sam stammered and got into his wreck. The engine revved up and died twice before Sam managed to drive away. My God, Sam's a freak, Dean thought. Seriously, what was that all about?

(***)

'You look pretty awful,' Dean told Castiel. Stiffly, Castiel shifted in the hospital bed.

'Why, thank you,' he croaked. The intention was there, but the sharpness was gone. Dean dragged a chair over to the bed and sat down. Where did your razor sharp wit go, Dean wanted to ask, but he didn't. Instead, he found himself leaning closer and gently touching the bandage covering the right side of Castiel's head. It was where the blood had been streaming over his face the day before. At the light contact, Castiel winced. Quickly, Dean removed his fingers.

'Sorry,' he mumbled. Castiel looked haggard. His skin had been pale to begin with and now it seemed almost translucent. Dark stubble covered his chin and part of his cheeks. It was sexy. For fuck sake; this was Sam's fault. All that blathering about how attractive Castiel was. Focus on the asshole aspect, Dean prompted. Unfortunately, that part wasn't functioning properly. Otherwise Castiel wouldn't have allowed him to touch the bandage or he would at least have chewed out Dean for doing so.

'It snapped like a twig,' Castiel said, apropos of absolutely nothing.

'I thought it snapped more like a thick steel beam,' Dean responded. That earned him a glare from Castiel, which curiously made Dean feel better. He was purposely irritating a wounded guy and it felt like the right thing to do.

'Point is; it wasn't supposed to snap. Not if it had the right density,' Castiel elaborated. They looked at each other. Dean scooted a little closer.

'You think it didn't?' he whispered. He glanced at the door and at the curtain separating Castiel's bed from the patient in the other bed. There was something conspiratorial in Dean's tone that he didn't entirely understand himself.

'Someone somewhere along the line made a mistake,' Castiel stated.

'Unless it wasn't a mistake,' Dean offered. They stared at each other some more. Dean must have fiddled with the dials and accidentally tuned into asshole wavelength, because he was pretty sure they were thinking the exact same thing. Construction was the new mafia. No one could be trusted. Everyone was always trying to swindle everyone else. So, someone had decided to substitute the proper steel with lower grade steel of a considerably lesser density in an effort to save some money and had hoped that no one would find out.

If all the other beams were also tampered with and they held long enough for people to move into the condos... That could cost lives. Not to mention the construction workers who were working at the construction site building those condos who were in danger.

'We've got to do something. Warn Balthazar or something,' Dean suggested. Castiel looked at him with barely concealed contempt.

'I told him,' Castiel admitted and then added with scorn, 'He told me Crowley is going to do an _independent_ investigation into the accident. Meanwhile, the construction naturally continues.'

'We should look into it. We already dislike each other. It'll be like a buddy cop movie,' Dean gushed. His enthusiasm was as artificial as Castiel's had been when Dean praised his design of the condos. However, Castiel was off his game, so he didn't pick up on the sarcasm.

'We'll do no such thing. And if we did, I'd prefer if we were Holmes and Watson. I'd be Holmes, in case you were wondering,' Castiel protested. A thin smile formed around his lips and Dean couldn't help but return it. Damn his assholish attraction, he thought.

'I wasn't. I assumed you were Sherlock; seeing as how you're an arrogant dickhead and all.'

(***)

The Seinfeld reference comes from the episode _The Little Kicks_. Here's the dialogue of the scene in question:

**Frank Costanza**: My George isn't clever enough to hatch a scheme like this.  
><strong>Elaine<strong>: You got that right.  
><strong>Frank<strong>: What the hell does that mean?  
><strong>Elaine<strong>: It means whatever the hell you want it to mean.  
><strong>Frank<strong>: You sayin' you want a piece of me?  
><strong>Elaine<strong>: I could drop you like a bag of dirt.  
><strong>Frank<strong>: You want a piece of me? You got it!


	3. Caring is creepy

**Chapter 3: Caring is creepy**

'Am I interrupting something?'

The doctor came in, looking a bit confused, and Dean got to his feet. He shook hands with the doctor. She was very frail. Dean thought she didn't look a day older than fifteen. She was an itsy bitsy person and her voice was squeaky, but her handshake was firm.

'I'm the person he saved. Dean Winchester,' Dean said and she introduced herself as Amanda Pierce.

'The idiot wasn't wearing a helmet,' Castiel muttered, darkly.

'That's ironic, because you were the one...' Dr. Pierce began, but Castiel immediately interrupted her.

'Yes, I understand the concept of irony,' he bit. Wow, he was really an equal opportunities asshole, Dean thought. Castiel regarded the doctor with suspicion as she looked at his chart and took out her penlight. It was up to Dean to defuse the tension and keep the atmosphere tolerable.

'Was it so serious that you had to keep him here?' he asked. She checked the left pupil's reaction to the penlight and then the right one. As she put the penlight into her coat pocket again, she answered.

'Well, he didn't have someone to watch over him. That first night, we usually recommend the patient be woken up every few hours to check his condition. Here we can permanently monitor him,' she explained. She jotted some things down on the chart in sharp, angular letters. Dean turned to Castiel.

'That's pathetic. What about Balthazar?' he demanded. Had he been wrong when he had assumed that Castiel and Balthazar were friends? They had seemed friendly enough at the construction site before the accident, however, Balthazar was easy to like. The supervisor got along well with nearly everyone.

'He has a wife and kids. The last thing he wants is me standing on his doorstep,' Castiel objected.

'No family? No other friends? No one else?'

'I don't need anyone. I feel fine.'

Dean couldn't even imagine what that must feel like. From the moment Sam was born, Dean had always had someone. If Sam married three wives and had twenty kids, Dean would still be welcome at his house when he was ill and needed help. In fact, Dean was pretty sure that Sam would ignore all Dean's protests and would just drag him there. His brother would sit by his bed and annoy the shit out of him for the duration of his illness. Hell, he would probably recover sooner simply to be free of Sam's smothering care.

And for a moment there Dean could have sworn Castiel looked... a little lonely, a little lost, a little vulnerable. It was the way Sam would sometimes look; his original puppy eyes, before Sam became aware of the power of that look and began to used it to manipulate Dean. Dean thought he must have been mistaken, because nothing had changed in the man's expression. Still, there was something in those blue eyes that Dean couldn't ignore.

'You do have a minor head trauma, Mr. David. No loss of consciousness, but still serious enough to keep you here,' Dr. Pierce interjected and Castiel scoffed.

'Yet I display none of the symptoms,' he snapped. Dr. Pierce tried to look at his bandage, but rudely he swatted her hand away. She waited politely and then tried again. This time he grudgingly allowed her to probe the edges.

'Now, now, you did experience disorientation, you had a head ache and your pupils were clearly of unequal size,' she mumbled as she confirmed the bandage was still secure. Suddenly, she seemed to hit a sore spot and Castiel jerked away.

'Because you were shining that damn light in my eyes! I don't think I have a concussion at all. Bunch of hacks,' Castiel complained, but she merely made a couple of notes.

'And he's a doctor too; doesn't he just keep amazing you?' Dean joked. He could not believe the way Castiel treated the doctor. Despite her youthful appearance, she was clearly capable and nice. Dean had met some unpleasant people in his lifetime, quite a few of them now ex-boyfriends, but he had never met someone as singularly disagreeable as Castiel. Disagreeable was a severe understatement; it was almost like saying that Hitler was not likeable.

'You're very prickly,' Dr. Pierce told Castiel. He glared at both of them and crossed his arms. His gaze drifted to the window.

'He always is,' Dean assured her. He looked at Castiel. The architect was staring into the distance. It was those blue eyes that did it. It was the only thing Dean could think of that would rationalise his behaviour and the offer he made. For fuck sake, he had just compared the guy to Hitler! There was no other explanation for what Dean did next.

'I could take him home with me. My apartment is big enough. I've got a neighbour who would be more than happy to check up on him when I'm not there,' Dean told Dr. Pierce. It was easier addressing her than it was to make the offer to Castiel himself.

'Absolutely not. I don't even know him,' Castiel immediately responded, but he also directed his response to the doctor. She looked a little bewildered to be caught in the crossfire of their conversation. Also, she now seemed to question Dean's presence in the hospital room. Dean could practically see the way her mind worked; thinking whether he was perhaps some kind of mental patient who had wandered into Castiel's room with less than noble intentions.

'Don't worry. You'd have to be out of your mind to want to kidnap this guy,' Dean quipped. Those blue eyes glared at him again, but Dean found he was getting used to it. It was almost nice.

'Tell him not in a million years,' Castiel protested, addressing Dr. Pierce a second time. However, his protest was not as vigorous as before and if Dean was correct Castiel was considering the offer. Offhand, Dean half heartedly nearly retracted his offer.

'Holmes and Watson also lived together, but if you'd rather stay here then that's fine with me,' he mumbled and got up to leave, but behind him Castiel grumbled his acquiescence. Hiding a smile, Dean faced Castiel.

'You've gotta be nice, though. You think you can manage that?' Dean asked. The question was futile. Of course, Castiel couldn't and what was strange was that Dean didn't mind.

(***)

That evening.

Pamela was in the living room, pretending to be incapable of cleaning up, and Sam and Dean were in the kitchen doing the cleaning up. The evening had been a bit exhausting. Sam had uttered every cliché known to man and seemed extremely ill at ease. The reason for it remained a mystery to Dean. Pamela was their friend and she was always very nice to Sam. They had known her practically their entire life, but lately Sam had been a bundle of nerves around her.

On top of that, Dean kept thinking of Castiel alone in Dean's apartment. He had no idea why the guy was constantly on his mind. Maybe because it wasn't smart to leave a new pet unattended in your apartment. Yes, he was worried about his apartment; not about Castiel. Dean didn't allow himself to care for anyone besides Sam and Pamela.

So, he didn't _care_. He was simply anxious about going back and finding the curtains shredded or Castiel eating out of the garbage. That visual brought a smile to his face. Focusing on the task at hand, Dean saw Sam with a napkin in his hand. His brother wasn't holding it; he was cradling the napkin in his hand.

'What are you doing?' Dean asked and Sam's head snapped up. He looked as if he had been caught doing something scandalous and blushed furiously. With an expression on his face that Dean couldn't decipher, Sam dropped the napkin on the counter.

'What?' Sam retorted. He was avoiding eye contact with Dean and was trying to act inconspicuous. Naturally, this meant that he was acting conspicuous as hell.

'You looked like you wanted to make love to that napkin,' Dean said. At this, Sam laughed awkwardly and way too loud. None the wiser, Dean bid Pamela and Sam goodbye and walked the short distance to his own apartment. Softly, he opened the door. Castiel was not in the living room and his curtains were still in one piece. It wouldn't surprise Dean if he was still lying face down on the bed in the guestroom where Dean had left him. He had declined Dean's invitation to Pamela's and hadn't said anything when Dean went.

On the other hand, Dean also wouldn't be surprised if Castiel had gathered all his necessities that they'd picked up at his apartment on the drive over from the hospital and had escaped. Neither of them was, after all, really happy with this new arrangement. What the hell had he been thinking anyway? Just because Castiel had maybe saved his life didn't mean that is was alright to offer to nurse him back to health. Horrible, horrible idea. And what had Castiel been thinking, accepting his offer? The guy must really have no friends.

Dean peeked into the guest room. A small beam of light from the living room fell on the bed. Castiel was sleeping. One slender arm was slung over the covers. Even with the cast, Castiel's arm was remarkably thin.

At rest, without his almost permanent scowl, Castiel looked... What was the word? Oh yes, hot. Dean rolled his eyes to no one. Clearly, because Castiel is an asshole and hot and I miraculously like him, I am going to fall in love with him, Dean thought. _Great_.


	4. Death of an interior decorator

**Chapter 4: Death of an interior decorator**

The next morning Dean woke up with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Castiel: ruining days before they even began. The kitchen was making a noise it usually didn't make before Dean was there to facilitate the noise. The coffeemaker was producing that familiar morning bubbling sound. After showering and dressing, Dean was pleasantly surprised to find a cup of coffee waiting for him. Castiel had taken up a new position to sulk. Instead of lying face down on the bed, he was lying face down on the couch.

'Pamela promised to look in on you a couple of times today. Are you gonna be alright?' Dean asked, as he heard Sam's unmistakable code knock. It was a dorky pretending to be a spy secret knock and Castiel sounded just as annoyed by it as Dean was.

'No, I plan on being kidnapped by a mentally deficient construction worker. Wait; that already happened,' Castiel sarcastically mumbled into the couch pillows. Dean chuckled until Castiel sat up straight and glared at him. He then glared at the clock as Dean opened the door and let in Sam.

'Good morning,' Sam beamed.

'Oxy_moron_,' Castiel mumbled. Sam winked at Dean and Dean grinned. This might be fun. Who knew someone with a worse morning mood than Dean existed?

'Try not to break anything. Don't run with scissors and all that,' Dean warned and Castiel scowled. Sam was also enjoying this. His smile was wide and he kept fondling something in his pocket. Was that? No, it couldn't be. Yet, it was. The infamous napkin. Dean didn't even want to know why Sam had kept it and why he was fondling it. They made for the door.

'Ah, construction workers leaving for work on time. What do you see outside?' Castiel asked and they stopped. Dean craned his neck to look out of the window and Sam did too. They exchanged a confused glance. There was nothing extraordinary to see outside.

'Nice weather?' Sam tried. Dean knew this was leading up to an insult. Something about construction workers being lazy or stupid or quite possibly both. This was only to be expected. Not the laziness or the stupidity; that wasn't true, but the insult. More and more he got the feeling that the insults had nothing to do with their perceived lack of intelligence or with their job, but with Castiel himself. It was a way of keeping them at bay.

There were only two explanations. Castiel was an asshole or someone in Castiel's past was an asshole. Or maybe a cause and effect thing: Castiel was an asshole, because someone in his past had been an asshole. Either way, whatever insult was coming, Dean discovered he couldn't really sum up the willpower to care. It was not personal.

'No flying pigs?' Castiel asked, and he pretended to search the sky. Triumphantly, he turned to the brothers. He wants to get kicked out, Dean thought. He wants to be pushed away, so he can wallow in self pity in his own apartment.

'Just a talking one,' Dean quipped and Castiel nodded. A tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but it was gone in a flash. Dean thought he might have imagined that again. Kind of like the little lost boy look that Castiel had had in the hospital. Dean was aware of his tendency to do that; he made up redeeming qualities about guys he was attracted to. It was stupid.

'I handed that one to you on a silver platter, didn't I?' Castiel asked, amused.

'Yeah, you did,' Dean said and smiled. As he closed the door behind him, Sam smirked at him. It would really be better for everyone concerned if Sam just refrained from smiling in the morning, because his cheery disposition irritated Dean. Even when, like now, Dean was in a pretty good mood. What would be even better would be if Sam also didn't talk before, let's say ten a.m. No such luck.

'That was cute. The witty repartee, flirting, sexual tension: whatever you want to call it,' Sam remarked. Dean didn't say anything; he merely imagined that Sam's head got stuck in the elevator doors and that lifted his spirits enough to stand next to his brother in the elevator without kicking him. Of course, when they got to Sam's car another argument developed and surprisingly, it wasn't about Dean calling Sam's car a wreck.

Dean had made the mistake of telling Sam about the problem with the beams. Always the righteous one, Sam wanted to tell someone, maybe even go to the police. So, Dean yelled that if they did that nothing would happen. Knowing Crowley, which Dean did a little, since Crowley was one of the not so nice men with whom Dean had had a not so healthy relationship, he would have the police covered. _If_ it was Crowley and the odds were in his favour. Sam yelled that they couldn't have their colleagues work under such conditions. Dean yelled some more about being blacklisted and not being able to find a job in the building sector if they did that and unlike Sam he couldn't turn to another field for work.

The ride to work was unpleasant to say the least. Dean was still wound up about their fight and Sam was uncharacteristically silent, which unnerved Dean. The sign with the sketch didn't help matters. Homes, my ass, Dean thought; they were building death traps. As they got out of the car, Balthazar hurried over to them. Maybe the site will be closed after all, until the investigation into the accident is concluded, Dean hoped.

'What are you doing here?' Balthazar asked, breathless. There were people at work. A small man with a pointy nose went into the finished condo. The collapsed condo excluded, there were construction workers everywhere and Dean felt an incredible anger surging inside of him. These people's lives were in danger and for what? So someone like Crowley could make some more money.

'What about the investigation?' he bit at Balthazar. The supervisor looked ashamed. He adjusted his hard hat and without looking at Dean Balthazar explained that the investigation was over. It was deemed a human mistake. The beam had not been secured properly, which had caused undue pressure on the beam and this had led to its breaking.

'This is getting better by the minute. So, now it's my fault that I almost got hit in the face by a fucking beam? That's it. We're going home,' Dean shouted and he pushed Sam back into the car. He was so angry that he wasn't thinking clearly. What about his job? What about his apartment? What about his life? What about _their_ lives?

'You've been reassigned to another site!' Balthazar blurted out and Dean blinked.

'Castiel didn't tell you? He requested you and Sam be put to work somewhere else,' Balthazar said and continuing in a whisper, 'I know the investigation is bullshit, but I need this job. My wife's pregnant again. I can't afford to lose my job.'

Absentmindedly, Dean accepted the quasi-apology by patting Balthazar's arm. He surveyed the construction site. He looked at his colleagues. He thought about that humming sound the beam had made before snapping. Sam was right. Someone needed to do something and Dean just happened to have an architect at his disposal. And if Crowley did turn out to be at the bottom of this; that would be the icing on the cake. Crowley deserved everything he got as far as Dean was concerned. Balthazar gave him the address and Dean drove off with Sam and a new resolve: he was going to crack this case wide open.

That's what detectives said, right? The case of the busting beam. The case of the bad boss. The case of the angry architect. The case of the crazy construction worker. So much alliteration, so much choice. Dean glanced at Sam. If Sam knew that Dean even knew the word alliteration, let alone what it meant, Dean would never hear the end of it. So what if Dean read poetry? That was not something that his brother needed to know. Not now. Not ever.

(***)

At the end of the day, Dean couldn't resist the temptation to go look at the finished condo at the disaster site. Death traps had never looked so good. Sam agreed to drive by, but Dean really wanted to take a peek inside and determine whether that beam also hummed. As they arrived at the site, Dean was extremely dismayed to find the Impala standing there. It was a running joke that Pamela was the only person authorised to borrow his car. Architects, however, were not allowed to drive his baby; no matter how hot the architect in question was.

'I'll see you tomorrow,' Dean told Sam. The slam of the car door sounded loud across the deserted construction site. Sam drove off and Dean watched to see whether his unnecessary force would cause the door to fall off mid drive. He couldn't decide whether that would be a good or bad thing. The atmosphere was eerie, though the bright sunlight somewhat dispelled the feeling of foreboding that Dean tried valiantly to ignore.

At the door of the condo, he stopped to listen. Inside everything was quiet. Cautiously, he opened the door. He felt a carpet underneath his feet and saw a lit lamp in the hallway. The walls were painted a warm yellow colour, probably called something like buttercup or daisy or whatever the hell those colours were always named. Dean hesitated. The condo must have been quickly prepared for the photo op, to sell more units. The work done on the inside was impressive. He had expected it to be finished, but not actually finished, if that made sense.

Neither had he expected Castiel, standing under the archway leading to what Dean presumed was the living room or the kitchen, with a dark spot on his otherwise light blue shirt. There was no humming sound, Dean noted, relieved. He turned his attention to Castiel.

'For fuck sake! You're supposed to be at home, resting,' Dean admonished and didn't it just freak him out a little that he referred to Castiel in his apartment as home? There was much more to say, but the dark spot staining Castiel's sleeve attracted Dean's attention and he approached Castiel. With every step he took, more of the living room became visible.

'Are you alright? You've got blood...' Dean began, but he stopped when he gained an unobstructed view of the living room. In the middle a man lay sprawled out face down on the floor. There wasn't a lot of blood, but what there was matted the man's hair and coated his neck. On the side table next to Castiel someone had emptied the man's wallet. There was a driver's license, a library card, an id, a business card, a credit card and an insurance card.

'Gabriel Brown,' the name on all the cards said. The business card specified his occupation as interior decorator. There were also a few photos of an elderly couple and a dog, a few crumpled receipts and twenty dollars. Dean looked at Castiel again. The blood was not only on his shirt, but also on his hand.

'What the fuck happened?' Dean asked. Castiel's breathing was loud and the coppery smell of blood was starting to affect Dean. In this heat, the whole thing would be more of a mess than it already was in no time. The architect leaned against Dean, seemingly unaware of doing so, and laughed weakly.

'I'm going to go out on a limb here and say murder,' he said. And this was one of Dean's imaginary things, Dean thought, because his intuition was crap. It had led him to adulterers, guys who spend their entire lives in the closet and abusive boyfriends. So, Castiel could be a serial killer for all Dean's intuition was worth, but he didn't think so. Castiel had nothing to do with this. He might be a lot of things, but he wasn't a murderer. What a fucking mess! At least, the case now had a name. The case of the dead decorator it was.


	5. Error error

**Chapter 5: Error error**

'Are you alright?'

'You asked me that already,' Castiel pointed out and Dean refrained from saying that Castiel had yet to answer the question. The other man's body felt warm against his own. That was probably not something he should be thinking about with a dead body lying in the next room. Well, attraction doesn't really recognise right or wrong times. That was pretty much a lie. Yes, Castiel's body felt nice against his, but he was thinking more about whether or not Castiel was hurt. Dean took Castiel's hand and wiped at the blood stain. The blood was not coagulated. It was still wet and a bit warm. It was also not Castiel's.

He must have checked his pulse, Dean thought. He _did_ sometimes mistakenly think that he was a doctor. So, Castiel was unhurt, except from shock. Relief flooded Dean. That indicated that - wait for it - he cared, which was just... no. Caring was not alright. Suddenly a new possibility occurred to Dean; what if Castiel had seen the killer? What if the killer was still here?

Carefully, he listened and he had no idea whether it was just his nerves or whether there was really a sound, but he thought he heard something. It came from upstairs. Dean moved towards the staircase, which was stupid. He realised it was stupid. You do not go towards the killer; you stay as far away from the killer as possible. Castiel grabbed his arm and Dean looked at him.

There it was again. His overactive imagination saw a spark of fear in Castiel's eyes. It wasn't even self preservation fear. That Dean could have understood. No, Castiel was afraid of what would happen to Dean.

'Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?' Castiel hissed. His fingers dug into Dean's arm and considering that he was applying this force with the hand of his broken arm made it all the more impressive. It was embarrassing, but Dean kind of liked being manhandled. At least, as long as the man doing the handling was as handsome as Castiel.

'What if I am?' Dean protested, attempting to hide his enjoyment of the moment. Corpse, he reminded himself. Killer, he reminded himself.

'Proceed,' Castiel said callously, but his hand still held Dean back. It wasn't until Dean smirked and stared pointedly at his hand that Castiel reluctantly released him. Castiel was right, of course. They weren't even sure whether the death of Gabriel Brown had anything to do with the material switcheroo. So, instead of going upstairs where the killer might be, Dean called the police and reported the murder.

He knew they weren't supposed to touch anything, but Dean thought the kitchen might be reasonably safe. Castiel was wobbling on his legs and his face looked drawn. Thus, Dean sat him down in the kitchen. They sat there for a couple of minutes, during which more sounds could be heard from upstairs. Footsteps, a window being opened. It was becoming abundantly clear that someone was up there and didn't want to come downstairs. Castiel stared at Dean.

'I'm going to look upstairs,' Dean announced and, before Castiel could say anything, he added, 'Yes, I know I'm an idiot.'

'That wasn't what I intended to say, though I concur. Be careful,' Castiel warned. Dean didn't imagine that. Castiel actually said that and it made Dean a lot happier than it should have. As well as he could, Dean ignored that ridiculous feeling. Trying to make as little noise as possible, Dean went into the hallway and up the stairs. Luckily, the wooden stairs were covered with plush carpet.

If it hadn't been for the, you know, killer, Dean would have stopped to admire the beautiful, dark red wood of the railing as the staircase wound upwards. As it was, he tiptoed and kept his eyes on every new inch of the condo that was revealed to him. Please, don't let me get shot, Dean prayed. I've still got things to do. People to do: Castiel. He'd like to kiss Castiel before dying.

That was a dopy wish, but it brought a smile to his face. On the second floor, the walls were blue. A clear sky blue, like the colour of Castiel's eyes. Damn it, Dean, stop it, he cursed himself. He went into what he assumed because of the sheer size of the room to be the master bedroom. The window was open and the curtains fluttered in the soft breeze. There was a small, flat piece of roof just below the window, but there was no one there. The killer had probably long escaped, but still Dean scrutinised the roof. The sun glinted brightly off the roof tiles, but as far as he could see there was nothing there.

Slightly disappointed, he went downstairs again. When Castiel saw him, he looked relieved and that made Dean's heart race. Yet, the best was still to come. The police arrived shortly thereafter and while Dean struggled to think of an explanation for their presence in the condo that did not involve corrupt construction employers, Castiel grabbed his hand.

'My boyfriend and I were looking for a place to have sex,' Castiel lied and he looked at Dean. The look in his eyes was a look that Dean had been waiting for his entire life. Yes, he was _that_ pathetic. A make believe look of a man who considered him an idiot and a nuisance was the most loving look he'd ever been on the receiving end of. He wasn't a complete moron; he was aware that the look was manufactured and that there was no feeling behind it. Still, he basked in its glow.

The police officers who had responded to their call were as speechless as Dean. Castiel didn't blink or blush. He simply sat there, holding Dean's hand, while the police took their addresses and names and statements down. When they were allowed to go home, but not allowed to leave the state, the light outside was waning. It wasn't until they reached the Impala that Castiel released his hand. Nobody was paying any attention to them, so they needn't have held hands for so long, but neither remarked on that.

Castiel handed him the keys and Dean refrained from asking how he had managed to drive with one broken arm. On the way home, they talked about possible connections between the building fraud and the death of the decorator, but they couldn't think of anything concrete. One thing was sure. Whether the two incidents were related or not, if the killer had access to police files he or she or they would know that Dean and Castiel had been on the scene. They would have to be extra careful from here on out.

(***)

In the following weeks, Castiel listened to Dean. It was a small miracle. He stayed at home and mostly in bed and rested. The broken arm and concussion and strain of the murder had taken their toll on him and he seemed tired. His insults were less inspired than usual, as if he wasn't even trying. Dean would go to the guest room – which, in the safe confines of his mind, he called Castiel's room – before going to sleep and they would discuss courses of action, but there was very little they dared to do.

Castiel was adamant about not dragging Balthazar into it and Dean didn't want to involve Sam. The police hadn't solved the murder of Gabriel Brown. All they had confirmed was that the interior decorator had been shot in the back of the head. It made Dean think of an execution style murder. Mafia.

And every now and then during their pointless conversations, Dean's mind would drift. He'd think about the warm feeling in the pit of his stomach on the rare occasions when Castiel smiled at him. He'd remember Castiel's hand around his hand. He'd dream about those eyes and the closeness of Castiel's body when they had been standing in the condo. Then he'd snap out of it.

What the hell was he doing? Attempting to uncover a major construction scheme was dangerous. Trying to go after a killer was quite possibly even more dangerous. Falling for Castiel: suicidal. Danger, Will Robinson, danger. Yet, he was. He was falling. Falling hard for this rude stranger.


	6. F you, f me

**Chapter 6: F you, f me**

'Doing detective work is like driving a car: you have to assume that everyone else has no idea what they're doing,' Castiel explained and Dean shook his head. They were doing something dangerous and stupid and pointless. So, it was pretty much business as usual for them.

'I didn't know you came in different settings,' Dean quipped as they ducked under the police tape. The air was heavy with the scent of stale blood and it made Dean gag. They had flashlights with them. In the dark, the buttercup yellow of the walls looked eerie instead of cheery. Castiel's hand brushed Dean's side before they split to examine the living room. The bloodstain was still there. Dean wondered why that was.

Perhaps nobody was in a hurry to buy a condo that was also a murder site, so the cleanup would be fairly useless.

'What?' Castiel whispered. He was the one who had insisted on going to the crime scene, despite Dean's protests that if there had been any clues the police would have found them. In addition, if they were caught they would look pretty good for murder. Returning to the scene of the crime and all that. Unfortunately, Dean's streak of good luck had ended and Castiel was back to not listening and not taking advice again. The architect had threatened to go alone and Dean was ashamed at how fast he had caved at that threat.

Because he didn't care. Castiel could get killed for all he cared. He would have his apartment to himself, as it was supposed to be. It would be bliss. Yet, here he was. At the scene of a murder looking for details the police had overlooked.

'Isn't that the standard Cas mode? Everyone is an idiot?' Dean asked as he looked beside the couch. It was a black couch. One of those couches you sink into when you sit down. Dean had humble wishes; like kissing Castiel before he died - which thanks to that same Castiel might be any day now – and owning a couch like this.

'Nobody calls me Cas.'

'It's what your friends would call you, if you had any,' Dean said. That earned him an annoyed huff from the other man. The living room was empty of clues. Dean wanted to give up and go home, but Castiel was already on his way upstairs. Counting on the light of the full moon, Dean switched off his flashlight and followed him. He bumped into Castiel when he suddenly stopped.

'What's your problem?' Castiel asked and he sounded angry. Dean thought it wiser not to answer that question and instead pushed the other man up. In the bedroom, they didn't find anything either. They were proving to be extraordinary crummy amateur detectives, so far. However, Castiel thought he spotted something shiny on the flat roof. Dean tried to talk him out of going out onto the roof. It was raining softly, so the tiles would be slippery and the entire damn roof was reflective.

Naturally, neither of those solid arguments deterred Castiel and he stepped onto the roof. Everything that occurred after that happened very fast. Dean heard the sound of a gunshot and pushed Castiel out of the way. They both slithered across the slick roof and the ground suddenly disappeared from under Dean's feet. He tried to hold on to something, but his hands couldn't gain traction on the wet tiles and when he did manage to grab a tile it came off in his hand. This is the end, he thought, but then a sharp pain in his shoulder told him it wasn't over yet.

He panted heavily as he hung there, suspended in the air. As he looked down, he could see the concrete driveway glisten underneath his dangling feet. When he looked up, he saw Castiel's face. It was contorted with the visible effort it took him to hold on to Dean's shoulder with just the one hand. The flesh of his shoulder hurt. It felt as if the nails and fingers were going to tear off his skin.

'Grab... the edge. I can't hold on for much longer,' Castiel gritted out. Dean began the delicate task of trying to take hold of the edge of the roof without swinging too much. That would make it harder for Castiel to hold on. Finally, he was able to wrap his fingers around the drainpipe. It was not the safest option and he hoped that whoever had secured the pipe had done a good job, but he couldn't find anything else to pull him up and Castiel was losing his grip.

Castiel's fingers slipped and Dean felt the gutter buckle when it had to carry his whole weight. His arms and fingers ached, but he managed to pull himself onto the roof. At least, he thought he did, until the gutter gave way and he fell. Unsure of what to protect, he decided on his head and shielded it with his hands and arms as best he could, but he landed hard on his back. The impact reverberated through his body and his neck got quite a shock too.

He lay still for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath. His whole body hurt, which he figured was a good sign, since it meant that he at least hadn't cracked his spine. Castiel called from the roof, his voice a panicky, hoarse whisper.

'Dean? Dean?'

After a while, Dean felt capable of answering and he grunted that he was still alive. He moved his head. His neck hurt like a motherfucker, but with a little trouble it did what it was supposed to do. As he sat up straight, he groaned in pain. Yet, he could get to his feet. He could wiggle every toe and finger and he was alive. The thing that hurt the most was still his shoulder where Castiel had grabbed him. Dean was sure that in the morning he would have a purple mark in the shape of a hand right there.

'What the fuck were you doing?' Castiel angrily demanded as he came running out of the condo. The rain came down harder and there was no bone or muscle in Dean's body that didn't hurt. Needless to say, Dean was not in the mood for incriminations.

'Someone tried to shoot you!' he yelled and Castiel had the audacity to first look surprised and then disbelieving. Dean shivered. The night air was quickly turning chilly in the pouring rain. Castiel dismissed Dean's assessment with a casual headshake.

'A car backfired. You're just being a drama queen.'

'Aha!'

Castiel heaved an annoyed sigh, while Dean triumphantly pointed at him.

'What 'aha'?' Castiel asked. In the distance, thunder rumbled and crackled. A bright flash of lightning lit their faces.

'Queen. You called me a queen. You're a homophobe,' Dean accused. At that moment, he felt it was true. After all, he had been in relationships with closet cases, married men, and at one exceptionally low point even with a guy who had a swastika tattooed on his back, so what was a little crush on a homophobe? Except it wasn't little and Castiel didn't seem like a homophobe.

'Your logic eludes me,' Castiel calmly said and Dean knew he was being inane, but he couldn't stop. He had nearly taken a bullet for this guy, only for Castiel to write his sacrifice off as an exaggerated reaction to a car backfiring. Instead of backing down, he approached Castiel and shoved him against the garage wall.

'That's why you treat me like crap. You hate gays, queers, fags.'

'I'm gay,' Castiel replied. It was said in the middle of another thunderclap, thus Dean's confusion was understandable.

'What? You're gay?' he whispered. The rain felt more like hail as it pummelled him. He shivered violently. Castiel's black hair was plastered to his pale face and his trench coat was darker and heavy with rain. Even in the midst of getting shot at and nearly plummeting to his death and having a pain in his lower back that was killing him; Dean took a minute to appreciate how hot Castiel looked.

'Afraid so. That pokes a hole in your little theory, doesn't it?' Castiel asked. Dean didn't know what to say. He knew what he wanted to do; he wanted to kiss Castiel, but as the sky lit up again he saw something that diverted his attention. He dug his finger into a little hole in the garage wall and pulled out a tiny, metal ball.

'What's this?' he said and showed the hole and the ball to Castiel.

'It appears to be a bullet hole and I think that's a bullet. Well, that pokes a hole in _my_ theory,' Castiel admitted and they simultaneously realised what this meant. Someone was shooting at them, still, using the thunder and lightning as cover. Luckily, whoever it was, was about as a good a shot as they were detectives. They ran to the Impala and afraid that whoever it was would try to shoot at the Impala too, Dean sped away with screeching tires.

'Since I've met you, I've been nearly crushed by a steel beam, I've been one floor removed from a killer, someone has tried to shoot me and I fell off a building,' Dean summed up in the car. He cranked the heater to full capacity, because the temperature inside the car did little to improve his mood.

'To be fair, some of those near death experiences were the fault of your own stupidity.'

'Thanks.'

'You're welcome.'

In Dean's apartment, they took turns showering and Dean tried not to look as Castiel strolled into the living room with only a towel around his waist. That attempt could be deemed a complete failure. Castiel _was_ lean. Despite Dean being taller than Castiel, the other man seemed longer, because he was so skinny. Yet, smooth muscles were visible under his tight skin everywhere. His cast was pretty much ruined, after their extended stay in the rain and the sloppy shower. He tore of the soggy plaster and deposited it in the trash can.

There was a bruise forming on his side, presumably from where he'd hit the roof when Dean pushed him and his non-broken arm was covered with fresh abrasions. Dean wasn't in much better shape. His nails were bloody and his fingers at the very least severely sprained. On his lower back there was a beautiful contusion spreading its tentacles. The contusion had freaked him out as he'd scrutinised it in the bathroom mirror, so he'd quickly put on a bathrobe to obscure it from Castiel.

That was strange. Dean had sported every kind of injury. Broken arms, broken wrists, broken fingers, one time a broken leg. Dislocated shoulder. Bruises covering every inch of his body. Cuts, scrapes, there were even faded cigarette marks, but he had never hidden them from anyone. On the contrary, he flaunted them whenever he got the chance. Look dad, look Sam, look Bobby. Look everyone; look at what's being done to Dean. Now, however, he discovered he didn't want Castiel to see the bad shape he was in. He groaned as he sat down on the couch.

'How do you think I feel?' Castiel spat and Dean got the feeling he wasn't referring to their physical injuries. Castiel paced and Dean attempted to turn his head to follow the movement, but this time his neck didn't cooperate. He felt tiny stabs of pain that ran down his spine. Maybe the best thing to do would be to just go to bed.

'That is my life's work and he's ruining it,' Castiel said and Dean sharply turned to face him, which caused a white hot flame of pain to shoot through him and made him slowly lower his head.

'You care about the condos, but not about the people?' Dean asked. Castiel advanced and Dean raised his head again. The pain was terrible. In the car, he had hoped to be able to pop a few painkillers at home and sleep most of it off. Maybe wake up to a manageable pain the next day, but that definitely wasn't going to happen.

'I don't care at all. When are you going to get that? I don't care!' Castiel screamed. Dean shifted slightly into a more comfortable position on the couch. Not that there was anything comfortable about the pain he was in. He grimaced as he straightened his back.

'Then why did you save me? Twice, I might add,' he asked. That appeared to be some sort of mortal insult, judging by the expression on Castiel's face.

'Fuck you,' Castiel said and he pushed Dean. The agony was unbearable as the contusion encountered a broken spring in Dean's couch and Dean winced. For a moment he thought he might actually pass out, which was ridiculous. Passing out was not something Dean did. One time, his wrist had been stamped on for about five minutes straight and he hadn't passed out then, so he sure as hell wasn't going to pass out now.

'Dean?' Castiel asked and suddenly he was tugging at the fabric belt of Dean's bathrobe. He pulled Dean up and the bathrobe fell to the ground. Right about now, Dean would usually make a lewd comment, but merely the bathrobe brushing against his sore back was enough to have him holding on to consciousness. Castiel turned him around and Dean could hear the sharp intake of breath when he saw the contusion.

'You're hurt. Do you want to fuck me?' Castiel offered.

'What? No!' Dean protested. The casualness of the suggestion shocked Dean and he had issued his share of brazen sexual proposals over the years. Issued and been issued. There was something wrong with the way Castiel had said it. As if it was acceptable to use Castiel to forget his pain.

'Your cock says you do and it's a very nice cock too,' Castiel said and Dean gasped as Castiel closed his fingers around it. His cock hardened even more. That felt... fucking _fantastic_. Nonetheless, it was wrong. Dean had vowed to not turn into the sort of guy he was attracted to. He didn't use people, no matter how much people used him. Castiel's hands moved up and down and a small trickle of pre-cum seeped out of Dean's cock. A smooth flick of his thumb and it was smeared across Dean's shaft. Dean trembled with desire.

'No, Castiel,' Dean repeated and he tried to bend to pick up his bathrobe from the floor. He couldn't and finally walked into his bedroom without it. Castiel followed him. As Dean awkwardly tried to lie down, Castiel took off the towel. Dean could see he was aroused too and he had a wonderful cock. He gently sat down next to Dean on the mattress.

'It's not an offer; it's a request. I'm the reason you're hurt. Now hurt me. I want you to,' Castiel whispered and to illustrate his point he flopped down on his stomach. Fuck, this was so unsettling, yet so hot. And God help him, Dean wanted to, but he felt like he could barely move, so it wasn't going to wash. He tried to angle his body, spasms and all, towards Castiel to kiss him, but Castiel averted his mouth.

'Dean. Either you fuck me or I fuck you and I think we both know that you can't handle that right now,' Castiel said and he didn't smile. He was serious. Asshole. Dean had always known that he himself was damaged goods and he had seen some pitiful cases, but none came as close as Castiel. He reached for the lube in the nightstand, but Castiel stopped him.

'No lube, no prep, no condom. Just do it.'

Dean's cock was twitching at the idea. Just like that. Dean had been on the receiving end of that, willingly and unwillingly, but he had never done that. It was painful and humiliating, but Castiel wanted it to hurt. He wanted brutal. Well, once he felt the pain of that initial invasion Castiel would probably change his mind, so Dean might as well get it over with. With considerable difficulty, Dean positioned himself between Castiel's legs. He pushed the other man up and Castiel obediently sat up and leaned forward, on his knees and hands.

Without a warning, Dean sank his cock into Castiel, but instead of resisting Castiel bucked into his thrust. In this position, the pain in his lower back was actually bearable, but that was the furthest thing from Dean's mind. He licked Castiel's neck and slammed rougher into Castiel. Again, Castiel allowed Dean deeper access by moving backwards. It was so good that Dean momentarily forgot all thoughts of it being wrong. To feel Castiel clenching around his cock, it was a thing that Dean had been having dreams of for weeks. Just _not_ like this.


	7. Goodnight and go

**Chapter 7: Goodnight and go**

'You like that?' Dean asked.

'Yes.'

'You really want me to hurt you?'

'Yes.'

'That is disturbing. Even for me.'

'Just do it.'

Dean suspected that Castiel wanted to be hurt physically, because it was better than being hurt emotionally. Or it prevented him from being hurt emotionally or something. Some strange and twisted reason was behind this and he didn't feel comfortable doling out the punishment that Castiel clearly thought he deserved. Dean was usually the one who got hurt, rarely the one doing the hurting. But who cared? They were both adults: Dean needed this and Castiel wanted this. It was just violence. Dean knew violence. He knew blood and pain and the sound of a fist connecting with flesh.

He knew how to hurt someone; he had seen it many times and once upon a time, in a moment Dean would like to forget, Dean had done it. Once and not again. Never again, he had thought. Yet, here he was. The difference was, he needed to remind himself again, that Castiel wanted this. So, it wasn't violence. Violence needs a victim and Castiel was definitely not a victim. Even while he was thrusting into Castiel, Castiel was the one in charge. One word from him and Dean would stop. Dean hoped and wished for that word; he prayed for that word. It didn't come.

There was absolutely nothing right about what they did. There was no love, there was no tenderness. It was all hard and impersonal. Dean couldn't look at Castiel's face, because it was constantly in pain. The bright look of hurt was unbearable and the underlying enjoyment even more so. What was perhaps the worst was that, despite all of that, Dean was aroused. He had not expected to be that person. Sure, his own pain could excite him. That was already freaky enough; to know that he was a bit of a masochist, but to get off on someone else's suffering...

He was inside of Castiel. Castiel was around him. They moved as one. It was easy to be confused, but Dean wasn't. They weren't one. They always remained two separate people, using each other. It didn't matter to Castiel that it was Dean who was doing this to him. They were strangers, just hurting each other to survive. This was true. While Dean bruised Castiel, Castiel hurt Dean. Because this was not what Dean wanted. To have sex, so unacknowledged, so without any pretence of a connection. It was almost rape and Castiel was the rapist.

While he was doing it, Dean realised he couldn't do it. He just couldn't. Fuck this shit! Dean was done being the victim of Castiel's twisted pity party. So, he pulled himself out of Castiel and while Castiel protested, Dean turned him around. Now they were facing each other.

'Castiel, I don't know what this is to you; I just know what this is to me. I've dated enough questionable guys to realise that this whole 'hurt me, use me' business is not about me using you, but about you using me. The person who's gonna end up hurt is me, which would, stupidly, be fine if it weren't for the fact that I like you. I _really_ like you.'

They stared at each other and Castiel looked puzzled. As if he couldn't believe that someone genuinely liked him. It made Dean sad. He bent down – damn the pain in his back – and tried to kiss Castiel. For the second time, Castiel dodged his kiss and Dean ended up kissing his jaw. He propped himself up on his elbows to look at Castiel. The man beneath him was so beautiful and Dean felt an unfamiliar ripple of compassion pass through him. He swiftly blinked it away.

'So, here's what's gonna happen. Nobody is using anyone. Nobody is hurting anyone. You can sleep here or somewhere else and, yes, I will take whatever you decide to do as a message. Good night,' Dean concluded and with some trouble he climbed off Castiel and settled down on his side with his back to Castiel. Any moment now, he thought. Don't be disappointed when you feel the mattress lift when Castiel gets up and leaves. Prepare for that moment.

Instead he felt a warm body shuffling closer and Castiel's lips on his right shoulder. This time it felt right. Dean didn't care if it was a mistake as long as it didn't feel like a mistake while they were doing it. The lips parted and the tip of Castiel's tongue wetted his skin. Dean trembled with desire, but still had reservations.

'Please don't do that unless you're staying,' Dean requested and the mattress shifted. For an agonising second, nothing happened. Then Castiel pressed a new kiss to his shoulder. Castiel's mouth gradually moved south. Dean moaned softly and attempted to wriggle away when Castiel reached the tender area of his lower back. However, Castiel placed his hands on his hips and held him in place as he gently kissed the bruised skin. His tongue licked across the assaulted muscles and Dean felt a mixture of pain and pleasure shoot through him like electricity.

The wetness and almost-not-there brushes of Castiel's tongue caused his nerve endings to explode and fire crackling bursts of delight throughout his entire body. He felt hot and cold at the same time as Castiel explored the edges of the enormous bruise and whimpered against Dean's skin. That whimper nearly sent Dean over the edge and the sound of the nightstand drawer opening and closing didn't help.

Carefully, Dean rolled onto his right side and faced Castiel. The other man held a small tube of lube and seemed unsure of what to do with it. Dean softly pushed him onto his back and took the tube from him. He squirted some of the lube into his hand and spread it over Castiel's cock with short, quick tugs. Castiel's puzzled look was still there as Dean threw the tube on the carpet and positioned his body over Castiel's. That look remained on his face when Dean straddled him and sank down on his cock. Slowly, Dean allowed Castiel to fuck into him.

If they were going to have sex then the least Castiel could do was look at him. With those nice blue eyes. And that carefully tucked away smile, which was friendly despite Castiel's general behaviour to the contrary. Because this wasn't supposed to hurt. It should be fun, Dean remembered vaguely. It was disconcerting how his batch of bad boyfriends had made him equate sex with violence, but this felt different. The feeling of Castiel moving inside him was even better than to have been the one doing that to Castiel.

Castiel gripped Dean's hips and tried to quicken the pace, but Dean loosened his hands and pinned them to the mattress. But not violently, no; tenderly. While Dean proceeded to fuck himself on Castiel's cock, lazy and sweet, he leaned down. The fact that Castiel still seemed confused was nearly killing him. He kissed his jaw and neck and licked his way down to Castiel's collarbones. He kissed them repeatedly, softly, until Castiel responded with another delicious whimper.

That was all Dean could take. He didn't think about the spasms in his lower back or how damaging this probably was for Castiel's unrecovered broken arm. He just rode Castiel. Pumped him, milked him, until they were both spent. Against each other they shivered and trembled for what appeared an eternity. Dean treasured the warm feeling of Castiel's hot and clammy skin against his own and when he allowed Castiel's cock to slip out of him the sticky mess between his legs actually felt pretty great.

This was the part Dean didn't like. Usually, he'd feel dirty and not in a good way and there would be an awkward post-sex moment. Except this time there was none of that. Castiel wiped them both down and pulled him close again. Unable to recall when he had last lain in someone else's arms, Dean struggled to remember how to react. He hesitated and Castiel guided his head towards his chest. Dean put his ear against Castiel's hot skin and listened to his lover's rapidly beating heart, which slowly calmed down.

This was bad. Most of the guys Dean dated had issues, but they were never the same as Dean's. His boyfriends were incapable of commitment or loving or being nice or really needed to take anger management classes to deal with their aggression. They didn't possess this willingness to let someone hurt them like Dean had and which he hated. Not this lack of self esteem coated in arrogance. Not this desperate need to trust someone while at the same time being unable to. What had happened to Dean shaped his decisions and life to this day.

Now the question was: what had happened to Castiel? Dean felt he needed to find out, not only because he clearly cared, but because he might be able to help. They might be able to help each other. Yeah right; that's why alcoholics in rehab are encouraged to start a relationship with another alcoholic. This was _so_ bad.


	8. A house is not a home

**Chapter 8: A house is not a home**

The first thing Dean, thought when he woke up was, _I like you_. Fuck, had he said that?

It was like a bad horror movie. Like Jaws 4. And when he moved he felt as if he had been mauled by sharks. Technically, that wasn't true, of course, because he couldn't move. He stared at the ceiling and tried to lift his head. Nope, couldn't do it. He didn't want to do anything involving his back, because he feared he might die if he tried that. Fortunately, he could, yes, he really could, move his hand. What he did with his limited capacity for movement was feel the bed beside him. Pathetic. It was empty, but still somewhat warm.

He stared at the ceiling some more and contemplated calling out for Castiel, but honestly he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to see Castiel right now. _I really like you._ God, it was all coming back now. How could he have said that? He hadn't even been drunk. Of course, he had been in pain. That was some sort of explanation. Not completely satisfactory, but it was something.

It wasn't a line; that was the problem. It was true. But you don't go around saying shit like that, at least Dean didn't. He groaned softly. The groan travelled through his body and the pain it caused was indescribable. What the fuck had he been thinking? He needed pain killers and muscle relaxants immediately, but they were in the bathroom and there was no way in hell that Dean was ever going to make it there in this state.

Suddenly, the sound of bare feet on the wooden floor planks alerted him to Castiel's presence. Dean didn't attempt to look at him, because he would like to start the day not passing out.

'I'm sorry about last night. It was all very wrong and especially after that fall. I should have taken you to the hospital, but I didn't think you were badly hurt, since you were walking and talking. Then when I saw the contusion, I should have insisted on taking you to the hospital, but you were naked and I was... distracted. Well, don't merely lie there. Argue with me, as you always do. You can't move, can you?'

'Pills. Bathroom,' Dean croaked and the bare feet padded to the bathroom and after a few minutes came back again. He really hoped Castiel would have the presence of mind not to sit down on the bed, because that might very well be the end of Dean's consciousness.

'This one?' Castiel asked and he held a prescription bottle in front of Dean's face. Stupidly, Dean tried to nod and the spasms of pain that shot through his back lasted a minute. It was quite possible the worst minute of Dean's life, which was really saying something.

'Three,' Dean whispered and Castiel left the room. He returned with a glass of water and put the pills into Dean's mouth and followed each one with a small sip of water. It was all very awkward, because Dean was still lying flat on his back and swallowing proved to be another one of those things that brought on the pain. Most of the water dripped down his face instead of down his throat. It wasn't exactly the kind of morning after Dean had imagined.

'You want these too? They're for lower back pain,' Castiel asked and he showed Dean a bottle of muscle relaxants. Since Dean was having the mother of all back pains, he definitely wanted those. Castiel unscrewed the lid and took out two. Again, he put them in Dean's mouth and poured some water into Dean's mouth.

After ten minutes, Dean started to feel better, because he started to feel less. There was the expected drowsiness, but that was preferable to the severe muscle spasms. Castiel was sitting on the carpet and was surprised when Dean groaned and tried to move. He got to his feet and took Dean's hands to help him. After about five minutes, Dean was standing, albeit barely.

'I'm going to take you to the hospital now. I might have to get a new cast for my arm; while we're there we might as well get your back checked out. Or not. I don't care,' Castiel lied. Dean was pretty sure he was lying. It was one of those 'the lady doth protest too much' things. So, he didn't object as Castiel dressed him and took him to the car.

It turned out that his back was fine, except for the giant and painful bruise. Nothing broken; it had just been a major hit to the muscles and they hooked him up with more painkillers and muscle relaxants. Castiel wisely kept his mouth shut about Dean's private stash. Castiel didn't need a new cast. His broken arm wasn't entirely healed yet, but it was progressing nicely.

On the way home from the hospital, Castiel did some grocery shopping. Dean waited in the car. He was thinking about Castiel leaving. Clearly, he did not want to be taken care of and wasn't resting, which was the only reason why he had been staying over at Dean's. The doctors hadn't even referenced his concussion, so there was no reason for him to stay. Yet, Castiel didn't bring up leaving and neither did Dean.

Back at the apartment, Dean took a shower and wandered into the bedroom. He fell asleep on the bed without even bothering to take off the towel.

(***)

'Dean?' Castiel softly asked. Drowsily, Dean blinked and yawned. The bed felt weird, probably because he was lying on top of the sheets. The apartment smelled nicer than it had done in ages. From the kitchen, the fragrance of good food drifted into the bedroom. Carelessly, Dean rolled over and immediately winced in pain.

'Here's a painkiller and muscle relaxant. The glass is on the nightstand. Dinner's almost ready.'

'Thanks. I have to pop over to Pamela for a second,' Dean answered. It was as if they were playing at some domestic arrangement. They were living together, but they weren't actually _living together_. Quickly, Dean took the pills and dressed. In the hallway, Dean met Sam and shuttled him over to Pamela's too. They'd been going to eat unhealthy food and watch Japanese game shows, but now apparently Dean was having dinner with Castiel. Just the two of them, which they had done before. Except now they'd had sex, so it had different connotations.

At Pamela's, Dean made the mistake of offering to grab the plates, because he wasn't staying. As he raised his arms above his head, he could feel dull ripples of pain plague his back and what was worse was that his shirt revealed a slice of his bare back. Turning around, he discovered that Sam was staring at him angrily and Pamela was definitely sensing a bit of the tension.

'Dean, what's with the bruise?' Sam asked and Pamela stepped closer.

'He's got a bruise?' she questioned Sam. And then Dean featured in some perverted and otherworldly pantomime theatre, because Sam grabbed Pamela's hand.

'Yes, a huge one. On his back. Let me...' he said and lifted Dean's shirt and placed Pamela's hand on Dean's back. The warmth and pressure were luckily not painful; in fact, they eased the pain somewhat. Sam kept his hand over Pamela's and held it there, while Dean stood there like a prop. A piece of scenery in the Sam and Pamela erotic touches show. Finally, Dean shuffled away and glared at his brother.

'Alright, enough. First of all, you can't actually _feel_ a bruise,' Dean said. Sam was blushing and he was still holding Pamela's hand.

'There's a swelling!'

'Save it, Sam. Secondly, in the future, if you two want to have a moment, try to refrain from using my body. Alright?' Dean concluded and, embarrassed, Sam dropped Pamela's hand. Dean had thought that at Pamela's apartment things would be a little more normal, a little reassuring, but suddenly playing at being a couple over at his own place didn't seem so crazy anymore. Pamela chuckled, but turned serious fast.

'Castiel isn't one of those, I hope. Dean, tell me he isn't one of those,' she pleaded. Dean pushed against the plates and glanced at his brother.

'Could we not do this in front of Sam?' he half-whispered, but Sam rolled his eyes.

'Pff, like I don't know,' Sam protested. Sadly, that was true. Dean would have liked to keep Sam entirely in the dark about the unsavoury aspects of life in general and the disturbing bits of Dean's dating history specifically, but that simply wasn't possible. Defeated, Dean sighed.

'Well, is he one of those?' Pamela persisted.

'He might be, but I don't think so,' Dean admitted. Rationally speaking, he wasn't sure. Insane, non-trusty intuitively speaking, he was sure. Castiel wasn't one of those. He didn't gain pleasure from hurting Dean, merely from annoying him. This was a definite step up.

'You don't think so? What about that giant bruise on your back?'

'I fell,' Dean answered Sam and to his brother's sceptic look, 'What? You know me. I don't lie about that. I never have.'

Perhaps he should have. Sam would have been able to enjoy an unburdened childhood a bit longer. However, the ignorant bliss would have ended eventually and now at least Sam had been prepared.

'Do you do that to him?' Pamela accused. Her creepy psychic senses were kicking in again. She knew Dean didn't do that and had never asked him that before. Maybe she sensed there was something different about Castiel.

'No. He wanted me to and I tried, but I couldn't,' Dean confessed and Sam groaned.

'Dude, why are you all so fucking disturbed? Can't you ever find a nice normal guy?' his brother asked.

'Do those exist?' Dean joked. Pamela admitted she hadn't found one yet and Dean agreed that he hadn't either. Sam pitched in that he personally hadn't been looking. At this announcement, Dean and Pamela turned to Sam.

'I keep forgetting you're not gay,' Dean admitted. Pamela chuckled. Clearly embarrassed and a tad annoyed too, Sam glanced at Pamela and angrily pushed his hands into his jean's pockets.

'What the hell does that mean?' he demanded. Dean would have liked to say that Pamela leaned back and watched the scene unfold, but she stepped forward and was the one who spoke the inevitable follow up.

'It means whatever the hell you want it to mean.'

Surprised, Sam looked at Pamela and then, on cue, cracked up. Something was happening here and it wasn't the casual discussion of Dean's fucked up sex/life or Sam's utterly pathetic continual references to Seinfeld. It was the weird sexual vibe coming from Sam, which Dean sincerely hoped wasn't directed at him. Yet, if he wasn't the intended target, Sam was going for Pamela and that was just...insane.

'Seinfeld: gets him every time,' Pamela seriously told Dean, as if he didn't know. She seemed unaware of the Sam's charm offensive, which was probably for the best. Sam was firmly in the friend zone of Pamela and Dean didn't see him getting out of that anytime soon, if ever. Maybe he was crazy. Yes, that was it. The drugs were affecting his brain and he was seeing things. Sam wasn't interested in Pamela in that way. Just Dean's dirty imagination. His disturbing thoughts were interrupted by Castiel poking his head into the apartment.

'Dean?' he asked. Sam stopped laughing briefly to acknowledge his presence and Pamela nodded in his general direction. Only Dean saw his awkward smile when he spotted Dean.

'Hi. Dinner's ready,' Castiel informed them and then he vanished again, softly closing the door behind him. Sam abruptly stopped laughing and frowned at Dean.

'Dinner's ready?' Sam asked, incredulous. He nudged Pamela.

'Yes, what was that?' Pamela joined him. She sounded more amused than mocking, like Sam had. Wearily, Dean replied.

'What was what?'

'He seemed almost shy. He's not shy,' Sam opined and Sam was right, of course. Castiel was neither shy nor awkward, so why had he acted as if he was? Was it because of the sex? That hadn't seemed a problem before. Or maybe it was because of the two of them having dinner together _after_ the sex.

'Whenever I check up on him, he treats me like his servant. Did you two...' Pamela began and Dean shuffled his feet guiltily, which she naturally picked up on, 'Yes, you did, didn't you? With your back like that, tssk.'

'Really Dean, is there _anything_ that can keep you from having sex?' a thoroughly grossed out Sam asked. He brushed his arm against Pamela's; don't think Dean didn't notice.

'I'm going now,' Dean answered as he made for the door. This day was proving too weird even for him. Sam was still standing too close to Pamela and he kept using every excuse he had to touch her. It was plain creepy.

'I'll give you 50 dollars if you say, 'Honey, I'm home,'' Pamela called out and Sam burst out laughing again. Before his brother could offer to double the bet, Dean told them both to shut up and closed the door behind him. Approaching the door of his apartment, he reflected that it was like travelling from one alternate reality to another. And when he entered the apartment, to his intense shame, he waved at Castiel. It was a little wave and he had no idea whether that made it better or worse, but it was a wave nonetheless. A moronic wave.

They ate in silence. Dean didn't comment on how good everything smelled and looked and, most importantly, tasted, because Castiel looked about ready to snap of a limb if he so much as opened his mouth for anything else than another bite. So, Dean ate the steak and the sweet potatoes and he even ate some of the salad. For dessert they had little egg pan cakey things stuffed with apricots and they were possible the best thing Dean had ever had in his mouth. Castiel rudely informed him that they were called blintzes and that his mother had taught him how to make them.

After dinner, Dean insisted on helping Castiel wash up, which seemed to piss off Castiel to no end. Side by side they stood at the kitchen counter and Castiel handed Dean the cutlery. They probably shouldn't even be doing this, Dean thought. One of them had a broken arm and a concussion and the other one could barely move if it wasn't for the copious amount of drugs in his system. Yet, there they were. Washing and drying the dishes and Dean just couldn't keep it in anymore.

'This is nice. It's almost...'

Castiel sharply turned and he happened to have a knife in his hand. That was a bit threatening, especially as he warned Dean to not say it. However, in his other hand he was holding the sponge and that diffused some of the danger in Dean's mind.

'...like a date,' Dean finished and he smirked. Castiel didn't stab him, which was a relief. He simply returned to the sink and banged the dishes around a little more forcefully than before. When he was done, but Dean still had the plates to dry, Castiel stalked off into the bathroom.

Well, it did seem like a date, didn't it? They'd slept together, all tender and shit and now Castiel had cooked for him. Notwithstanding that Castiel had been cooking for Dean for almost three weeks now, because Dean's cooking skills weren't worth a damn; under these new circumstances it had seemed an awful lot like a date.

Still, Castiel clearly didn't want their relationship – assuming they had one – defined in these terms and he had been pretty nice all day, so Dean felt bad about the remark. When he had put away the dishes and cutlery, he went to the guestroom. The door was closed.

'Castiel?' he called out, but Castiel didn't hear him or pretended not to hear him. He briefly considered ignoring the implication of the silence and opening the door, since it couldn't be locked, but decided against it. In the bathroom, he brushed his teeth and when he went into his own bedroom he received a surprise. A welcome surprise, but still a surprise.

On the left side of the bed, Castiel was lying under the sheets. For a second, Dean was speechless, and that didn't happen often. Pleased, he got into the bed. Castiel moved towards him. The sheets rustled in a way alien to Dean, because it was not the sound of sex about to be had, but the rustle of an impending embrace. Sure enough, Castiel's arms deftly encircled Dean and the stubble of Castiel's chin brushed against Dean's neck.

It was strange how alien and at the same time familiar these arms around him felt. Castiel's warnings didn't do any good and Dean's internal, much wiser voice was ignored too, because Dean discovered himself leaning into the embrace and thinking that, yes, he _did_ really like Castiel. He might even... He needed to be careful. A house was not a home. Sex was not a relationship and an embrace was not love. It wasn't. No matter how much it felt like it. It wasn't.


	9. I can't, I don't and I won't

**Chapter 9: I can't, I don't and I won't**

Dean couldn't sleep. Probably because he'd already slept for much too long after he had showered that afternoon. Or because it was a couple of hours since he last had a painkiller. Or maybe because he hadn't fallen off a roof, been shot at and had sex that evening and thus wasn't, you know, _tired_. Or maybe, just maybe, because he was lying in the arms of someone he really liked and it was starting to look like Castiel might like him too.

He shifted awkwardly and couldn't contain a soft groan. Castiel heard him and went to get a painkiller and a glass of water. It was very strange. This man, who had until recently basically insulted him nonstop, was now taking care of him. Castiel seemed nonplussed by his new role, while at the same time reluctant to discuss it.

With a mumbled thanks, Dean took the painkiller and the glass and downed both. Then he snuggled up to Castiel again. Snuggled was maybe not the right word; it seemed too defined and too intimate. However, Dean was not up to debating semantics at the moment, because Castiel's arms around him felt just right.

(***)

'Did you do something to piss off Castiel?' Sam asked. Dean's brother sounded confused and angry and maybe a bit scared too, which Dean was miraculously picking up on. Miraculously, because he had woken up only five minutes ago and it was hard to gauge all these emotions over the phone. Oh yeah, and Castiel was giving him the world's best blowjob.

'No. Why?' Dean said, trying to keep his voice level. Castiel's teeth were gently grazing the length of his cock and, fuck, that felt good. A glance at the alarm clock revealed that it was a little after nine a.m. He did his best to stifle a moan, but ended up just covering the phone with his hand.

'You sure?' Sam prodded, when he brought the phone to his ear again. Well, generally everything Dean did and said seemed to at least mildly annoy Castiel, but right now Castiel didn't seem mad at him at all. His tongue swirled around Dean's cock and his lips moved up and down. Those lips were magical, Dean thought, and he really wanted to kiss them. It annoyed him that Castiel still hadn't allowed him to kiss him.

'Pretty sure, yeah,' Dean answered as he tangled his fingers in Castiel's hair. Castiel looked up at him, Dean's cock firmly between his flushed lips and Dean almost crushed the phone in his hand, because that was just fucking hot.

'Balthazar just called and we're assigned to work on Castiel's condos again,' Sam explained and Dean almost expected his erection to disappear immediately. Yet, the sight of Castiel sucking and licking his cock and the sensation of those lips on him proved too much and all he could do was choke out, 'What?'

'We've been reassigned. Balthazar was vague about who had ordered the switch, so I thought it might be Castiel, but apparently it isn't. Suddenly, slaving away as a paralegal doesn't seem so bad. I'm seriously considering quitting,' Sam sighed. Dean kept quiet and bit his lip as he came. After Castiel had sucked him dry, which was threatening to make Dean hard again, he resumed the conversation with Sam.

'I think that, yes, maybe you should quit. I mean, I can't work for at least a week, probably more, and I don't want you out there on your own,' he suggested. Castiel kissed his way up his torso, but stopped at Dean's neck. Dean tried to kiss him, which was a considerable sacrifice on his part, since he really had no desire to taste his own spunk. However, Castiel didn't appreciate the gesture and avoided his lips.

'As if it would make any difference if you were there. Just wanted to tell you what's going on. I have to go. Bye,' Sam finished and he hung up before Dean could say bye too. In one swift movement, Dean rolled over and pinned Castiel to the mattress, but when he attempted a kiss, Castiel struggled and broke free. This shit was beginning to infuriate Dean. He was starting to feel like Richard Gere _and_ Julia Roberts, as in the guy who can't get kissed to save his life and a whore.

By the way, referencing that movie, even if it wasn't out loud, wasn't alright. Trying to divert his mind from that mental slip up, Dean ignored his failure to kiss the object of his affection and considerable desire and told Castiel what Sam had said. Castiel looked about the same as he always did: mildly annoyed.

'We should discuss what is happening,' Castiel said and Dean arched his eyebrow.

'You think, genius?'

After the whole 'hurt me' disturbing sex speech, Castiel's refusal to discuss their relationship and his refusal to be kissed; a talk was long overdue. What had happened to Castiel to make him this way; that was what Dean wanted to know. It could hardly have been worse than Dean's own fucked up youth, but somehow, even without cigarette marks to show for it, Castiel seemed to have gotten a rawer deal.

'No, not that. We're having sex. Discussed. I'm referring to someone actively trying to kill us,' Castiel responded.

'Actually...' Dean said. He liked saying actually. It was such a non-word that was used so much that it had almost lost its meaning. If spoken in a British accent, like Crowley would, it instantly transformed the speaker into a pretentious twit. The drugs were making him lose his train of thought, Dean realised, and he got back on track.

'Actually, I've thought about it and I've come to this conclusion. Someone was either trying to kill us or trying to scare us or trying to scare us into killing ourselves, which I almost did when I fell off the roof.'

Castiel looked at Dean as if he had never seen him before. That was nice. One intelligent comment and my quasi-boyfriend looks as if he is seeing water burning, Dean thought. Against his better judgement, but heeding the pain that was droning anew in his back, Dean took another painkiller. They showered and dressed and during and after breakfast they discussed the facts.

There was something wrong with the steel beams supporting the condos' roofs. Maybe someone had made a mistake. Probably someone was trying to make a quick buck. Gabriel's death might have something to do with this or not. Anyway, he had definitely been murdered. At the scene of the crime, they had been shot at but had not been hit.

They agreed that, if it was all part of a construction scheme, it seemed improbable that they would have gotten out alive unless that was the intention. Those modern mafia types would hire competent contracted killers, so it must have been a warning. Or they were just two guys making up excuses to spend time together and there was nothing wrong with the beams and Gabriel's death was entirely unrelated to their ridiculous excuse of an investigation.

This entire conversation took hours. They sat in the kitchen and in the living room. Castiel paced. Dean popped painkillers. They turned on the TV and turned it off again. They turned on the radio and kept it on, as a soothing background noise to their talk that was getting nowhere. Around noon they were exhausted, so instead of having lunch, they slept. Side by side, in Dean's bed, which garnered no comments from either of them. Dean didn't want to upset the delicate status quo and Castiel simply didn't want to talk about it.

(***)

Dean woke up to Castiel frantically undressing him.

'Castiel?' he asked, hesitantly. The curtains were closed and the light was off, but as his eyes got accustomed to the weak light he saw that Castiel was already naked. His pale skin shone in the afternoon light filtering through the curtains and Dean got with the programme pretty fast. He grew hard within a matter of seconds and though the radio was now more of a distraction – why was it still on? – the sound of Castiel's needy gasps were more than enough to get Dean's full attention.

'I need it. Now,' Castiel growled. Dean knew he had the tendency to be naive. Making up redeeming qualities about his lovers. Making them nicer than they were. Hell, making them nice, because they were rarely nice to begin with. Nonetheless, Dean believed that the desire in Castiel's voice was not about the sex. Nor was it about Dean's body. It was about Dean. He wanted Dean. He needed Dean. And Dean needed him just as badly.

Quickly, he shrugged out of his jeans and boxers; the only items of clothing he still had on. Somehow, Castiel had already managed to take off his shirt, socks and shoes. And Dean's mind was not concerned with their roles. Whether Castiel was dominating and Dean submissive didn't matter; Dean just wanted to give Castiel what he needed, which turned out to be Dean braced against the headboard of the bed with his legs spread.

After administering the lube, Castiel slipped a finger inside Dean and Dean whimpered. His back was starting to throb again, but he relished the pain as Castiel added another finger. Despite Castiel's obvious arousal, he took his time stretching Dean. Dean kept one hand gripping the headboard, while the other reached back and grabbed hold of Castiel's dick.

'Come on,' Dean urgently whispered as he guided Castiel towards his entrance. In one slick motion, Castiel entered him and Dean returned his free hand to the headboard again. Kindly, Castiel allowed him time to adjust and placed his hands on top of Dean's hands. Then he started to move slowly, but it wasn't long before he was slamming into Dean.

I love you, Dean caught himself about to say and he bit his tongue so hard that he could taste the blood in his mouth. You love him? That can't be true, you don't and you're not going to either, he told himself.

'I need...' Castiel sobbed as he emptied himself inside of Dean and Dean was horrified. He wasn't crying, was he? Castiel stayed in place as he brought his hand to Dean's cock and expertly jerked him off. It was good, but Dean's thoughts were otherwise occupied. Castiel's face rested against Dean's back and Dean could feel no tears, no trembling. No sign of crying, except for that sobbed out aborted sentence.

What did Castiel need? Was he afraid of confirming that he needed Dean or had he been going to say something else entirely? Dean came, rather subdued, over Castiel's hand and Castiel pulled himself out. Upon turning over, Dean discovered that Castiel wasn't crying nor had he been, but he did look weird. Every time Dean thought their situation couldn't get any stranger, one of them kicked it up a notch.

'I kind of feel like I should respect whatever the hell your issues are and I do, but that doesn't mean that I don't want to talk about what we're doing,' Dean said. Yes, that was a good way of putting it. Erudite, succinct, a lot of other expensive words. Castiel shielded his eyes from Dean's gaze and pulled away his hand when Dean tried to touch it.

'Dean, I can't... I don't do that anymore. Feelings. I won't,' Castiel explained. Except it wasn't much of an explanation. It only begged more questions. What had screwed him up so bad that Castiel didn't even try to do 'feelings' anymore? At least Dean tried. With all the wrong men, of course, but he did try.

Disappointed, Dean watched as Castiel got dressed and eventually he got dressed too. The radio was spouting out the local news. In the kitchen, Castiel avoided eye contact, but Dean wasn't about to be deterred.

'Ok. Why?' Dean asked. Someone pounded on the front door. The pounding got louder and louder. Dean figured it must be Sam, though Sam usually reserved the pounding for the morning because he knew that was when it would annoy Dean the most. At all other times, his dorky code knock did the trick. However, when he opened the door, it revealed a breathless Pamela.

'The news,' she yelled, out of breath, 'I just heard... Have you heard the news?'

Right on cue, the newscaster started on another news item. Pamela fumbled towards the radio. On the way, she collided with the kitchen table. Her behaviour baffled Dean. She knew the outline of his apartment like her own and he never moved anything substantial without telling her. Reaching the radio, she turned the volume up.

'Remember, vampire lovers. Tonight Stephenie Meyer will be at Barnes & Noble for a Q&A and book signing. It starts at 7:30. Now we turn to the accidents segment. This afternoon at a construction site near Stanford University, two construction workers were crushed to death when a steel beam crashed on them. The beam, which supported the roof of an under-construction condo for Crowley Constructions, was carrying an excess load. The site supervisor Balthazar Gibbons and technical advisor Simon Dooley have been taken in for questioning and might be charged with negligence.'

The life drained out of Dean, and Castiel caught Pamela when she stumbled. Pushing him away, Pamela approached Dean. He took her hands. Dean looked at her, but he needed someone to look at him. To see him. To confirm that this was real, that this was really happening. Castiel's blue eyes met his, but Dean suddenly realised he didn't want to know that this was happening and turned to Pamela again.

'Sam?' they whispered in unison. Neither knew the answer.


	10. Just like Jesse James

**Chapter 10: Just like Jesse James**

'Dr. Barnes?'

A middle-aged man with shifty eyes stood in the hallway, not daring to enter Dean's apartment. The man took in the scene; the dead silence, Castiel's failing attempt at invisibility and Dean and Pamela clutching at each other and cleared his throat.

'Dr. Barnes, our session was supposed to start five minutes ago,' the man awkwardly explained, looking at his watch. Dean watched as Pamela straightened her back and composed her face.

'I'm coming, Patrick. Dean, call Sam and tell me when you know he's okay,' she instructed and calmly lead Patrick to her apartment. Dean closed the door behind her. His fingers trembled as he called Sam.

'Hi Dean.'

That voice; Dean had never been happier to hear it. Unfortunately, his happiness was short lived as he asked himself why Sam hadn't called of his own accord instead of letting him find out about the accident on the fucking radio.

'You dickhead! Why didn't you call to say you were alright?' he shouted.

Sam had the gall to chuckle and say, 'Aw, you were worried? I'm fine. It was another condo than the one I was working on. Building at the site is suspended indefinitely. Also, and Castiel will not be happy to hear this, the rumour is that the flaw is not in the construction but in the design.'

Dean glanced at Castiel, who was looking mightily relieved that their conversation had been interrupted, even if that meant Dean had been having heart palpitations about his brother's welfare. This only made Dean more determined to get to the bottom of Castiel's issues.

'That's _great_. Any other good news to tell me?' Dean asked, sarcasm dripping off his response.

'I can't come over tonight. I'm going to tell Stephenie Meyer she's a horrible writer,' Sam proudly proclaimed. Dean was still pissed off and dreading his upcoming talk with Castiel, so he replied more crankily than intended.

'Yeah, because nothing says 'you suck as a writer' like waiting in line for hours to have her sign four threadbare copies of her novels,' Dean bit at him and, before Sam could defend his actions, added, 'Glad you're alive. Bye.'

Now, he should tell Castiel about the rumours, because Castiel had designed the condos after all. However, if they got started on that, he would never be able to steer Castiel back to the topic of his problems with feelings, so he was simply going to ask about that first. Setting priorities was important. So, he went over to Pamela's and told her Sam was alive and kicking. She smiled wickedly and kissed him. Then he entered his apartment and asked again.

'Why?'

Castiel sighed heavily and pulled a kitchen chair towards him. He sat down and rubbed his face. Dean crossed his arms and waited.

'Because I break everything,' Castiel said, sounding beyond tired.

'Why?'

At Dean's repeated question, Castiel sighed again.

'Why do you always do that? The never ending questions. Why can't you just believe what I tell you?' Castiel asked. The older Winchester had no idea what the hell Castiel was talking about. They barely talked and Dean was also not exactly persistent at anything and what did he mean by 'always'?

'I believe you. You break everything. But I've already had everything broken. I can take anything,' Dean stated. Castiel apparently thought that was a dubious statement, so Dean pulled off his shirt and showed the faded cigarette marks.

'Don't pretend you haven't seen them. This happened to me and worse. Trust me, if you can give it, I can take it,' Dean asserted.

This was so stupid. Of course, Castiel wasn't talking about physical abuse, about the literal breaking of bones; he was being o so very melodramatic and saying that he messed everything up. Dean knew this. Which is why the cigarette marks were irrelevant. Dean knew this too. It was just a way of gaining Castiel's attention and at the same time showing off his abs.

Also, while it was true that Dean's body could take anything, – and _had_ – Dean had known from the start that it wasn't his body that was in danger with Castiel. Dean liked him, Dean cared about him. It would be better to walk away right now. But I'm an idiot, so I'm just going ignore all the warning signs, Dean thought.

Warily, Castiel approached him. Dean flexed his muscles, which made Castiel laugh unexpectedly. The soft fingertips of the architect lightly traced the scars on Dean's abdomen, before those blue eyes peered into Dean's eyes.

'Who did that to you?' Castiel asked.

'No. You're not talking about your issues; you don't get to know mine either. Point is, I'm like Jesse James: people keep trying to kill me and I survive,' Dean said. Castiel grimaced and took his hand off Dean's skin.

'Except, eventually he was murdered,' he pointed out. Dean felt he should listen to whatever Castiel was saying, but he was too busy slipping his hands under Castiel's shirt. He liked the hardness of Castiel's body. It was strange and so different from his own. Dean was pretty sure that if he upped his beer intake a bit, he would sport a paunch in no time; Castiel would have a lot more trouble become fleshier. The guy simply had very little meat on his bones. Dean's hands travelled over Castiel's ribs up to his nipples. He tweaked them slightly and Castiel whimpered.

'You are aware that your brother is in love with Pamela and that the feeling is mutual?' Castiel whispered in a husky voice. Dean's hands continued their journey, oblivious to the meaning of Castiel's words.

'Hmmm,' Dean murmured as he placed his hands on his lover's neck. Castiel's shirt had ridden up and displayed his taut stomach. Dean let his hands glide down again, his right one slipping between the waistband of Castiel's jeans and his warm skin. The left hand grabbed Castiel's belt and yanked him closer.

Castiel squirmed as Dean's fingers enveloped his hardening cock and twisted a fraction. Cautiously, Dean's other hand snaked up and gripped Castiel's neck tightly. Dean leaned in for his umpteenth attempt at a kiss, but Castiel violently jerked away. They stared at each other, panting.

'Sam said that there are rumours that the design is the issue. Yep, your design is causing the beams to snap. How about that, huh?' Dean remarked casually. He shoved Castiel out of the way and retired to the bedroom. Suck on that jerk, he thought, while he selected a volume of poetry by Dylan Thomas. He especially liked _Do not go gentle into that good night_, because it called for anger.

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light_ and all that. Pretty neat. Byron had some angry stuff too, but it was a little too 'Good day to you, Sir. I said good day!' for Dean's taste. Why wasn't there any good angry poetry out there? For when a guy who wasn't your boyfriend didn't even want to fucking kiss you. I mean, that must have happened before to other people, Dean thought. Furious, he slammed the book shut.

The problem wasn't Dean's body. Many men, one man in particular, had tried to break Dean's body and none of them had succeeded. Dean's heart, however, was definitely breakable. It would take a lot, but it could be done. And Castiel was certainly capable of doing it. Dean wanted to ask Castiel not to break his heart, but that would be so gay. Then again, Dean _was_ gay.

(***)

Author's note: If anyone knows some good angry poetry; leave a review and share.


	11. Kabluey

**Chapter 11: Kabluey**

'You read poetry?'

He looked up to find Castiel standing in the doorway of his room, sort of hesitating between coming in and fleeing to a country far, far away. Annoyed, Dean sighed.

'No need to sound so surprised. Unless you thought I was illiterate, which, come to think of it, you probably did,' he snapped. Tentatively, Castiel ventured into the room and closer to Dean. It was as if he was seeing the room for the first time. Well, since they were usually too busy screwing each other this was most likely the first time Castiel was able to get a good look around. His long and slender fingers slid over the spines of Dean's poetry collection.

'I didn't think you were illiterate. Semi-literate; yes, but illiterate, no,' Castiel admitted, but even with Castiel's back to him Dean knew he was smiling through the insult.

'Look, you can't tell Sam that I read. He'll be over here even more wanting to talk about books,' Dean explained. He got up and put the Dylan Thomas volume back where it belonged. That was why the bookcase was in his bedroom in the first place: to make sure Sam didn't see the books. The architect reached out and touched Dean on the shoulder, but Dean stepped back.

'I don't think so.'

'I'm sorry.'

He wanted to ask what Castiel was apologising for specifically, but he didn't. The whole thing had gone on for too long already and Castiel clearly either wouldn't or couldn't give him what he wanted. Why o why did he have to fall in fucking love with the most emotionally stunted guy available?

'Dean,' Castiel said in a voice that was new to Dean. It was more like gravel on sandpaper than ever before. It was straight up sex and Dean felt his cock take notice. So, against all his baser instincts he stepped further away from the object of his desire.

'Castiel,' he warned. The light in the room was soft and Dean thought he might very well be imagining things again, because Castiel seemed to be engaged in some sort of inner struggle. His gaze alternated between Dean and the doorway and eventually he settled on Dean.

'You can kiss me if you want; I don't mind,' he said. His voice was resigned and flat, as if he had just volunteered to be the annual ritual sacrifice of some primitive tribe. All the sex was gone from his voice and, frankly, Dean was insulted.

'You don't _mind_?' Dean asked, incredulous. What the fuck? Dean knew he was attractive. He was funny. There were people who actually wanted to kiss him and more. For Castiel to act like he was consenting to something horrible by allowing Dean to kiss him was bullshit.

'Yes, it would be fine,' Castiel repeated. Yes, Dean was definitely pissed off now.

'Fine as in hot as hell or fine as in you won't care?' Dean asked, but he knew which one it was. What an asshole, Dean thought. Castiel remained silent. Intentionally bumping into Castiel, Dean exited the bedroom and entered the living room. The architect followed him, docile and meek. They stared at each other as if this was some kind of Western impasse where one of those little balls of dried grass always whirls by just before the gunfight. And Dean didn't know whether he wanted to kill Castiel or fuck him.

'Fuck you, Cas. Kiss me,' Dean ordered. Castiel had that little lost boy look on his face again; an equal mixture of how will I get back to the camp and how did I get stuck in the dark without a flashlight? It was adorable and the bastard looked gorgeous in the weak light and Dean really wanted to bridge the distance between them and kiss the hell out of him, but damn it! he wasn't going to. Not this time.

'If you really want a kiss you're going to have to kiss me,' Dean said and suddenly incredibly determined - and extremely sexy, Dean thought – Castiel approached him. And just like that they were kissing.

There was a low rumble in Castiel's throat that Dean could actually feel. Castiel's lips were demanding and immediately his tongue penetrated Dean's mouth. There was a raw, animalistic need to it that Dean found entrancing. Castiel clutched at his back and smashed their mouths together so hard that Dean nearly climaxed right then and there.

'Slow down,' Dean mumbled and Castiel obliged. His kisses became softer and more considerate. He sucked Dean's lower lip into his mouth, which caused Dean to moan and made his knees buckle in a way that was entirely unfamiliar to him. Then he bit on it very tenderly and licked it and Dean couldn't even process what was happening anymore because he was rock hard.

Castiel seemed to notice Dean's deteriorating mental state and softly raked his tongue across Dean's neck, where he located a vein and proceeded to make it difficult for Dean to remain in an upright position. His cheek rubbed against Dean's cheek and his stubble chafed Dean's skin. Honestly, Dean could not care less. They backed away towards the couch and Castiel roughly pushed Dean onto it.

He covered Dean's body with his own, but he continued to use only his lips, teeth and tongue. Returning to the same vein in Dean's neck, he sucked and teased and lapped at it until Dean started to grind against him of his own accord.

'Slow down,' Castiel commanded and abashed Dean obeyed, trying to keep his hips still. However, when Castiel then resumed the shallow kisses, which seemed to Dean more like pecks, and which were simply not enough Dean began to move his hips again. Thrusting against Castiel's leg he felt himself colouring, because he was basically dry humping the guy, but he couldn't stop.

Castiel didn't seem to mind too much as he pushed up Dean's shirt and gently bit his nipple. This, of course, caused Dean to groan appreciatively and thrust upward hard, which earned him a smirk from Castiel. In one smooth move Castiel stripped Dean's jeans and boxers down to his knees and palmed his cock. It took a while for Castiel to find the right position, which was balancing precariously on his side on the edge of the couch, his hand around Dean's dick and his mouth on Dean's.

With Castiel's constant kissing and Castiel's fingers pumping him at just the right pace, Dean couldn't hold it in for long and soon he was jerking all over Castiel's hand. Through his orgasm and Dean's satisfied moans Castiel continued to press alternating soft and demanding kisses to his lips.

Dean took Castiel's sticky hand and cleaned it on his own shirt, which Castiel rewarded with another deep kiss. Dean was feeling a little exposed, so he pulled up his boxers and jeans and sat up. It was probably not a good idea to walk around in these clothes, since aside from the grossness factor, Pamela would never let him live it down if she saw it.

'I'm gonna change,' he told Castiel. In the bedroom he pulled the shirt over his head and stepped out of his boxers and jeans. He dumped those on the dirty pile and fished some others out of the relatively clean pile. The new jeans were darker and tighter and the shirt was one of Sam's old Stanford ones, which Dean was strangely fond of. So fond, in fact, that when it had snagged on a nail he had bullied Sam into sewing a patch over the hole.

'It can't be my design,' Castiel called from the living room. Dean huffed and Castiel recognised it for what it was; an aren't-we-arrogant huff. Dean looked at the faded patch. It featured a picture of a pink care bear, which fucking Sam had used on purpose in a misguided attempt to embarrass him. Little did he know that Dean was not easily embarrassed.

'Not because I'm infallible, but because I double-checked the calculations after the first beam collapsed and they were sound. So, it can't have been the design,' Castiel explained. Smoothing the dark red shirt and looking once more at the stupid patch, Dean strode into the living room.

'Relax. I don't think your design is to blame.'

'It was you,' Castiel stammered and for a second Dean thought that Castiel meant that he was the one responsible for the building accidents. He was about to laugh that off, until he looked at Castiel's face, which bore an expression of shock and...well, _pain_. Dean took a step towards Castiel, but he abruptly and almost wildly stepped away. Frowning, Dean watched as Castiel retreated into himself, as if the kissing had never happened.

There was something going spectacularly, profoundly wrong here and Dean had no idea what it was. After a few seconds of baffled silence, wherein Dean struggled for something to say which would erase the vulnerable, hurt look on Castiel's face, but could think of nothing, Castiel left. He didn't say anything; he simply left, leaving Dean to call out after him in a state of utter confusion.

'What was me? Cas?'


	12. I was once a loyal lover

**Chapter 12: I was once a loyal lover**

Ok, what the fuck just happened? Dean couldn't figure it out. One minute they were making fun of each other and kissing and the next Castiel was storming out of his apartment. Did something happen while he was in the bedroom? Did Castiel get a phone call or something? No, that couldn't be it, because Dean hadn't heard anything and he hadn't been in the bedroom for that long.

Furthermore, Castiel had said that it was him. _Dean_ had done something, but he hadn't done anything. Dean desperately wanted to believe that he was making it up again. That Castiel was simply an asshole who had walked out on him for no reason whatsoever and that there hadn't been that look of pain on his face. But there had been.

Making a decision, he grabbed his keys and ran out of the apartment. The elevator was going neither up nor down, which either meant that Castiel was taking the stairs or that he had long since arrived downstairs. Dean took the steps three at a time and reached the ground floor in record time. No Castiel. He went outside and looked around. No Castiel. He rounded the left corner of the building and then doubled back and rounded the right corner, but Castiel was nowhere in sight.

Unsure of how to proceed, Dean dug in his jeans for his cell, but of course it was still in his other discarded jeans. Well, he couldn't demand an answer of Castiel when said Castiel wasn't around. Dejected, he entered the building again. This time he took the elevator up. It pinged every time it passed a floor and somehow it sounded as if precious seconds were ticking away. As if something was coming to an end.

Back in the apartment, Dean was relieved to see that Castiel had not left his phone, so Dean could at least reach him. He retrieved his cell from the pile of dirty laundry in the bedroom and dialled Castiel. Castiel didn't pick up. On the kitchen counter, Dean spied Castiel's wallet and the keys to Castiel's apartment. For some reason, this made him feel worse.

In an agitated state, he tore through the living room in search of the phone book. It was stupid to think that Castiel would have arrived at his apartment already. Not because his keys were here, because his neighbours could have a spare or Castiel could have a spare under the welcome mat. It was hard to imagine Castiel being on friendly terms with his neighbours or having a mat _welcoming_ people to his apartment, though. Castiel couldn't be there, because it was practically across town and he had left only a few minutes ago.

With the vague idea of leaving a message, Dean called Castiel's apartment. There was no answer, but also no invitation to leave a message. The bastard didn't have voicemail. Dean's surprise annoyed him, because Castiel's cell hadn't offered him the option of leaving a message either. It simply rang and rang and rang. The sound set his teeth on edge.

The wallet and keys were staring at him. Castiel would need money or his credit cards or his driver's license, surely? Sam would be very rational and reason that Castiel would have to come back to pick up the wallet and his keys. It weren't just the keys to his apartment either. There were car keys and other keys Dean couldn't place. They should make him feel better. They were proof that Castiel would come back. Instead, however, they convinced Dean that Castiel was not coming back.

'Well, fuck that!' Dean said out loud. He took a small plastic bag and put Castiel's wallet and keys in there. In the bedroom, he also shoved a volume of poetry into the bag, in case he had to wait for a long time. Grabbing his keys again, he bolted out of the door. He drove straight to Castiel's apartment.

The sun was fierce and Dean felt antsy as hell. He sat down on the pavement next to the door of the building and fortunately no one came to tell him he couldn't sit there, because he would probably not have responded politely. It had been a while since he had looked at himself in the mirror, but he suspected he looked a tad crazy. Between thinking that Sam might be dead and having Castiel vanish, the day was proving to be exceptionally long and crappy.

He tried to read, but his glances at the door ruined the flow of the poems and he couldn't concentrate anyway. The horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach hadn't subsided. On the contrary, Dean thought it might be working itself up into an ulcer. And nothing had really happened. That was the clincher. They hadn't been fighting. Castiel had just left. Yes, there had been that expression on his face, which Dean wished he could forget, but essentially what had happened was nothing.

Three hours passed.

His anxiety grew. Castiel had nowhere else to go, except back to Dean's apartment and Dean knew he wouldn't go there. Balthazar! Stupidly, Dean felt as if coming up with the name of Castiel's only friend, as far as he knew, was some sort of breakthrough. He grinned and called Balthazar.

Balthazar hadn't heard of or seen Castiel that day and started to tell Dean that he had been questioned, but had been released pending the investigation, which Dean had all but forgotten about. He tried to impress upon Balthazar the importance of calling Dean if Castiel contacted him, but Balthazar was busy with his own problems. Also, it was difficult to convey how awful it had been and still was when Castiel had walked out.

Dean gave up on reading and called Castiel's cell and apartment a dozen times in the next hour. If someone had asked him to explain why he was calling Castiel's apartment, he would have been hard pressed to come up with an answer. Hadn't he been here almost the entire time? Didn't he have the key? He could have gone in and seen for himself whether Castiel was there, but that was too invasive. His back started to ache and he remembered the fall.

Falling off the roof and Castiel's hand digging into his shoulder. It seemed so long ago, but it was only a couple of days. He had forgotten to take his painkillers with him and didn't think Castiel was going to show up. Groaning, he got to his feet and drove back to his own apartment.

He took a shower with his phone nearby. He took a painkiller. While watching TV and surreptitiously checking his phone, Dean decided that he was being ridiculous. Five hours ago Castiel had walked out of his apartment. That was what had happened. And Castiel was nothing to him. He was an attractive asshole; that was all. They'd had sex; that was all.

There was leftover Chinese in the fridge and Dean didn't even bother to heat it. He sat at the kitchen table, eyeing the bag with Castiel's wallet and keys and picked at his food. His mind couldn't stop the onslaught of thoughts.

Castiel looking up at him with his lips around Dean's cock. Castiel kissing him. Castiel slamming into him from behind. Castiel making snide comments about how dumb and lazy construction workers are. Castiel just generally being a douche bag. A douche bag whom Dean had almost said 'I love you' to.

After an hour of shuffling his food around, Dean dropped the Chinese into the trash and went to bed. He was tired beyond belief, yet he didn't think he would be able to sleep. His worries over Castiel would keep him awake. That was merely one other thing wrong about that day: Dean slept like a baby as soon as his head hit the pillow.

(***)

The first thing Dean did the next morning was check to see whether Castiel had called. He hadn't. The second thing he did was cross the hall and knock on Pamela's door. Sam was already there, saying something about shrieking schoolgirls and Dean knew that Sam was rarely alone with Pamela; it was usually the three of them. So, he should have addressed that, but truthfully he hardly noticed it.

He explained what had happened with Castiel to them, but they seemed unable or unwilling to grasp how violent Castiel had reacted. Strictly speaking, it wasn't violent in the sense that a lot of Dean's boyfriends were violent, but it was severe.

'What did you say to him?' Sam asked and Dean sighed.

'You're not listening. It wasn't something I said,' Dean explained again, which only prompted another clueless question from Sam.

'What did you do?'

Pamela put her hand on Dean's arm; otherwise he probably would have at least made a move to punch Sam.

'I didn't do anything either. Sam, I swear, I just came out of the bedroom and he left. You should have seen his face. There was this sort of... I hurt him. I didn't even think that was possible. I didn't think I could do that, but I did. I hurt him and I don't know how.'

Dean despised how desperate his voice sounded and how Sam and Pamela still didn't understand. He could see them thinking that either Castiel was an asshole or that Dean was keeping something back and they had been arguing. Dean rubbed at his face. He felt rested and physically fine, except for his back, but emotionally he was a wreck. Like Castiel. He told them about what Castiel had said about not wanting to engage in a serious relationship or any kind of relationship, really, aside from sex.

'In professional terms I'd say he's pretty fucked up,' Pamela said. She seemed to at least comprehend that it wasn't an excuse. It wasn't an I'm-only-interested-in-sex thing. Something had happened to Castiel when he did _do_ feelings and it had scarred him for life.

'Yeah, but something must have triggered it, right?' Sam asked and Dean thought back, but he couldn't come up with anything that might have caused it. Nothing he had said or done that would have made someone walk out the door. Sam and Pamela both needed to work, while Dean's back was not ready yet, so he left and looked around his apartment. Was there something he could see that could have hurt Castiel? The trouble was that, since he didn't know what had happened to Castiel in the past, he didn't know what to look for.

After two fruitless phone calls – one to Castiel's cell and one to Castiel's apartment – Dean took the plastic bag containing the wallet and keys. He drove over to Castiel's apartment and this time he did enter the building and opened the door to the apartment. There was a thin layer of dust on the floor, which indicated that Castiel hadn't been there for at least two weeks.

Disappointed, Dean immediately closed the door, because even opening it had been an invasion of privacy. He drove around for a while, randomly. He was about to go back to his apartment, because he had forgotten his painkillers again, when he saw Castiel. Dean immediately parked the car and approached him from behind. Castiel looked rough.

As if he had slept on the bench he was now sitting on or had spent the night under a bridge. His stubble nearly formed a beard and there was a hardness to him that was like the mean remarks. A sort of sign that people should stay away or else. Castiel's phone rang, still the original ringtone; the same for everyone and Dean paused. He wanted to see whether Castiel would ignore the call or whether it was just Dean's calls that weren't answered.

It hurt a little bit when Castiel looked at the number and subsequently answered. Suddenly, Dean was no longer sure whether he should take those last fifty or so steps. Castiel had walked away and wasn't answering his calls. Castiel obviously didn't want to talk to him. On the other hand, Dean wanted answers. He wanted to know what he had done.

'At what cost?'

Dean heard it clear as day. _At what cost?_ Not 'Hello, friend who isn't Balthazar' or 'Nice to hear from you again,' but 'At what cost?' What was the cost? Did Castiel have something to do with the construction accidents after all? No, Dean didn't believe that.

The next word out of Castiel's mouth was a forceful 'No.' It was in need of an exclamation point, but Castiel didn't scream it or shout it; he merely enunciated it clearly into the phone. Dean inched slowly closer, bumping into other people. He was in a park he had not known existed. Then again, there were probably a lot of parks in California he wasn't aware of. He was not a park person.

The answer following that, Dean couldn't hear, because a flock of pigeons flew away. It was a miracle he could hear Castiel at all from this distance. It was that low and gravelly voice, Dean thought.

'... plan this?' Dean could make out. Who was Castiel talking to? The snatches of conversation were driving Dean crazy. It was already difficult to glean the meaning of a talk if you could hear only one side, but if that one side wasn't complete the meaning got muddled even more. Dean suspected that was what was happening to him. He stopped in his tracks as Castiel got up from the bench. His gaze slid over Dean, but he didn't see him.

That hurt a bit. Don't be a smuck, Dean told himself. He's focused on his conversation, not on his surroundings. Castiel turned, so Dean saw his striking profile. People crowded around them. Mothers with prams, teenagers with skateboards, men in suits with ties and black briefcases; the noise fluctuated. Sometimes it was so loud that Dean was surprised he could hear himself and there were brief pauses when Dean could hear Castiel as if he was standing right next to him.

'And what about Dean?' Castiel asked. Now he sounded angry. What about Dean? What about me? Dean was finding it harder and harder to not walk up to Castiel and shake an answer out of him.

'No,' Castiel snapped, only to revise his answer a second later to a hesitant, 'I don't know.'

Now Dean could see Castiel's face. The colour had drained from it and the pain was back. This time it was even worse than before and Dean struggled not to avert his eyes, but to remain looking at it.

Castiel calmly listened to what the person on the other side of the line had to say and then spoke one word - 'once' – and dropped his phone in the trashcan. The gesture frightened Dean. It was so irrevocable. People didn't do that. You needed to transfer numbers to your new phone and sometimes you could trade in your old phone for a new one. Sure, characters in films did that. The police or criminals were after them and they knew their phone could be traced. Or they wanted to leave their old life behind.

What does Castiel mean by throwing his phone away? What does Castiel want, Dean wondered as he walked towards Castiel. It started out as a walk, which turned into a trot, which morphed into a sprint. Castiel was standing on the pavement. He looked both ways. Dean saw his face. It was neither distracted nor absentminded. It was determined. It wasn't as if he was looking but not seeing, like he had not seen Dean when he was on the phone.

That was the moment Dean realised that all his fears were not crazy. Castiel had indeed never intended to come back to him.

Dean tried to call out, but, like these things always worked, – or rather _didn't_ work – he couldn't. A pathetic croaking sound escaped his throat. It was barely enough for Dean to hear, so Castiel definitely didn't hear it. There was a bus. Castiel stepped in front of it. Tires screeched. Dean felt his heart hurt like it hadn't hurt before as he watched the bus hit Castiel.

What did Castiel want? Castiel wanted to leave life in its entirety behind.


	13. The man who murdered love

**Chapter 13: The man who murdered love**

Castiel was in a coma. Not a real coma, but an induced coma. During the accident, he had suffered a severe traumatic brain injury. Dean had lied and said he was Castiel's brother and had followed the ambulance to the hospital. They had operated on him immediately. Dr. Pierce, the doctor who'd treated Castiel's concussion, turned out to be a neurosurgeon, so Dean's brother-story was debunked. However, she pretended to believe him. Dean suspected she thought he was Castiel's boyfriend and this was his only way of being there for Castiel. Dean let her believe it.

After the surgery, they kept Castiel in a coma with barbiturates. Most of what he was told was mumbo jumbo to Dean. Something to do with narrowing blood vessels and relieving intracranial pressure. Dean didn't care as long as Castiel ended up waking up and being his own easily irritable self.

Dr. Pierce confided in him that the hospital had been unable to locate Castiel's family. In fact, they weren't sure that, aside from Dean, – wink wink – he actually had living relatives. There was an emergency contact from a couple of years ago in his medical file, but it listed only a telephone number. The hospital had called it several times, but no one answered and the voicemail didn't offer up a name either. They had left a message nonetheless, but as of yet no one had arrived at reception to ask about Castiel.

Dean knew that the other reason Dr. Pierce allowed him to stay with Castiel was because Castiel simply didn't seem to have anyone else. He hadn't known whether to tell her that Castiel colliding with a bus wasn't an accident, but there were several other witnesses who'd saved him the trouble. If Castiel woke up and did not have any serious brain damage, which still remained to be seen, he would have to attend therapy.

While Castiel was convalescing in a coma, which also gave his broken ribs and numerous internal bleedings which had been operated on a chance to heal, Dean was back at work. Since construction on the condos designed by Castiel was still halted, Sam and he had been transferred to another site.

After work, Dean would sit by Castiel's bed, feeling awkward. Castiel probably didn't want him there and Dean wasn't sure he should be there, but there was no one else. The police had taken Castiel's accident as something close to a confession because, despite Castiel's certainty regarding his calculations, it turned out that it was his design that had caused the accidents. The angle and weight of the roof and the density of the beams described in Castiel's architectural drawings and calculations put too much pressure on beams that were not capable of carrying the load, which had resulted in the death of two people.

Add that to the fact that Castiel and Dean were suspiciously on the scene of the murder of Gabriel Brown and Castiel was effectively screwed. Balthazar wouldn't visit him, in fear of getting involved in the police investigation again. Dean thought he was a fucking coward. Meanwhile, Sam and Pamela had tried to convince him to keep his distance from Castiel too, because they were alarmed by how unbalanced Castiel had turned out to be. Contrary to their belief, Dean thought this was a reason to stick by Castiel, instead of a reason to abandon him.

He couldn't deny that Castiel's emotional instability had scared him and he blamed himself for missing the warning signs. Time and time again, through his thick layers of sarcasm and arrogance, Castiel had displayed how unworthy he felt. His amazement that Dean could actually like him, his attempts to push Dean away, his insistence that he ruined everything; those didn't exactly point towards a healthy, confident psyche.

Yet, Dean's awkwardness didn't stem from any of these valid sources. He felt awkward because he didn't know what to do. In the beginning, he had tried talking to Castiel, but he had felt ridiculous doing that. Reading to him was also out, because this was real life and not a damn Lifetime film. So, he sat by Castiel's side. Sometimes he'd touch Castiel's hand, but despite having had sex practically non-stop with the guy, Dean stupidly felt that holding his hand was overstepping some sort of unspoken boundary.

(***)

Two weeks later.

It was the day that Castiel was supposed to wake up. They had taken him off the drugs that had been keeping him in a coma and they were anxious to see how he was doing. Dr. Pierce had reassured Dean that Castiel's brain activity showed no signs of damage, but, nonetheless, Dean sensed she was nervous too. It would simply not be clear how well he had recovered from the accident until he woke up and opened his mouth. Dean had taken a sick day – not that he could really afford to after the shenanigans with his back, but screw that.

Sitting on either side of the bed, they waited. She tried to engage Dean in small talk, but he was too tense to hold up his end of the conversation, so she quickly gave up. Dean was the one who first noticed that Castiel was trying to open his eyes. It seemed to last an eternity and take a superhuman amount of strength. Castiel was trembling with the effort, but he managed.

His piercing, blue eyes slowly surveyed the room, resting briefly on Dr. Pierce and then on Dean. There was no spark of recognition or irritation. No indication that he knew who Dean was. Naturally, this was the moment where Sam's fondness of soap operas haunted Dean. What if Castiel didn't remember the last two months? That would mean that he doesn't remember me, Dean thought.

Dr. Pierce was talking. Something about what year it was and what his name was. Castiel didn't answer. She tried to shine that annoying light in Castiel's eyes, but he closed them. Cautiously, he opened them again and focused on Dean. His lips were cracked and a faded colour of pink. They parted slightly. A hoarse sound escaped his mouth, which startled both Castiel and Dean. Resolved, Castiel tried a second time.

'What are you doing here?' came out in a croaky whisper.

'Being there for you,' Dean said. To his astonishment, Castiel rolled his eyes and turned away from him. A tight nod gave the doctor permission to resume her questioning. There was no memory loss, none that Dr. Pierce could detect immediately anyway. Castiel accurately answered all her questions, including whether he knew her and Dean.

Dean watched her explain everything that had happened and the procedures the hospital had been forced to perform on him. Listlessly, Castiel nodded. After a long series of tests, Dr. Pierce excused herself and left them alone. Castiel seemed determined not to look at him and Dean didn't know what to say.

'I was there, you know,' he eventually settled on. This elicited no response.

'When you tried to end your life, I saw it,' Dean clarified. Perhaps he hadn't been clear enough. Yet, Castiel continued to just lay there, apathetic, staring at the ceiling.

'Why did you do it?'

A bitter smile appeared on Castiel's face. It was the only indication that he had heard Dean's question. No answer was forthcoming and Castiel's passivity was beginning to upset Dean.

'Was it because of me? The thing you think I did?' he asked. This was taking it to the height of self-importance and Dean knew it, but he had to somehow make Castiel respond. No such luck.

'Aside from whatever I might feel about it, it seems like a fucking admission of guilt. The police think it is,' Dean snapped. Castiel remained unmoved. He still hadn't so much as glanced at Dean since his massive eye roll.

This was proving to be a particularly one sided conversation. Changing tactics, Dean decided to concentrate on Castiel's recovery and leave the questions for another time.

'You can stay with me again,' he offered. Under any circumstances Castiel's silence might have been interpreted as acceptance of his proposal, but now it was a definite rejection. Where else was he going to go? Who was going to take care of him? Balthazar wouldn't and his mystery emergency contact didn't seem to care either. Distressed, Dean tried again.

'Cas, someone needs to take care of you. Just... let it be me.'

At this Castiel made eye contact. His gaze was harsh and unwavering.

'Leave me alone,' Castiel spit out, enunciating every word with extra care. Despite his raspy voice, the biting tone made his meaning perfectly clear. Then he averted his face and continued his cool appraisal of the ceiling. Dean got it. He might not have gotten it before, but he got it now. Hurt, he got to his feet.

'I'll just...' Dean mumbled, but Castiel obviously didn't give a damn, so he didn't finish his sentence. At the door, he hesitated, but when he looked he saw that Castiel was still staring at the ceiling.

He located Dr. Pierce and thanked her for all she had done and how she had allowed him to visit Castiel. She said it had been her pleasure and that she thought that Castiel would make a speedy recovery. Feeling numb, he pushed the elevator button. After a short wait, the doors opened with a light ping. Politely, Dean waited for everyone to exit before entering.

A boy with a balloon and his mother drifted over to the nurse's station. Two female doctors went to the left. Another newly arrived visitor exited the lift and strode confidently across the hall. Dean noticed an old lady inching towards the elevator and he delayed pushing the down button until she had reached it. He had half a mind to do something as cruel as trip her or allow the elevator doors to close right in front of her face, but he restrained himself.

With a shock, Dean recognised the visitor, even though he had his back to Dean. The visitor conferred with Dr. Pierce before going into Castiel's room. The old woman pushed the down button and the elevator doors smoothly slid closed. Why was Crowley visiting Castiel?


	14. Need you now

**Chapter 14: Need you now**

'I know you're in there.'

Dean paused and held the fridge carefully open. The crisply cold wafting his way was actually nice. He didn't breathe or move. A smile appeared on his face as he made an inventory of the contents of the fridge. There was still one apple pie left. Another volley of knocks on the door. Dean ignored them.

'Dean, answer me. I swear I'll break down the door if you don't,' Sam shouted. Sighing, Dean took the pie out of the fridge and placed it on the counter.

'What?'

Undoubtedly hearing the immense irritation in Dean's response, Sam changed tactics. Suddenly, his voice sounded kind and concerned.

'Can I come in?'

'No, you can't. I'm busy,' Dean answered. Taking a knife out of the kitchen drawer, he cut a big slice. That was all the cutlery he was going to use today. Unfortunately, his brother wasn't giving up.

'Doing what?' Sam asked.

'Stuff.'

'Doing what, Dean?'

'Just, you know... stuff.'

Stuffing himself would have been a more accurate description, but Dean was too busy making sure the pie made it into his mouth to care. Sam knocked again.

'Like what?'

'Like there's a pie that needs eating.'

'Let me in,' Sam whined and Dean decided that the best course of action was to give his brother what he wanted. He'd hear Sam out. On top of that, he'd pretend to care about whatever it was Sam had to say, if that sped up the process. Then Sam would go and he'd finish the pie. Wiping his fingers on his jeans, he walked to the door and opened it. Immediately, Sam popped inside, as if he was afraid that Dean would change his mind at the last minute and close the door on him. Smart thinking.

'I found something,' Sam said, eyeing the pie. There was no way that he was getting any of it, Dean decided. Quickly, he put the plate into the fridge again. Meanwhile, Sam produced a sheaf of papers out of his man-bag and Dean realised with exasperation that it was going to be one of _those_ times. His brother would wax academically about something and seconds would go by like hours.

'I've done some sleuthing. Gabriel Brown...'

'Damn it, Sam. Didn't I tell you not to get involved?' Dean snapped. Sam merely rolled his eyes and tried to hand the papers to Dean. They fell to the floor because Dean refused to accept them. He was done with it. Just done. Bitch face in full force, Sam kneeled and started to pick up them up.

'There is no interior decorator called Gabriel Brown,' Sam said. Dean tried very hard not to look like his interest was piqued, but didn't entirely succeed. He didn't need this. He didn't need to get dragged into this again.

'Wait, I'm saying it wrong. There are a few Gabriel Browns who decorate houses, but they are all very much alive,' Sam added. He deposited the papers on the kitchen table and began to smooth out the wrinkles. Some response was required of Dean, but he couldn't think clearly.

If Gabriel Brown was not an interior decorator then who was he? And what had he been doing in the finished condo? And why had he been killed? And what would the case be called now? The case of the dead decorator was obviously out; you needed a dead decorator to deserve that name.

'You've got nothing to say?' Sam inquired. The younger Winchester had advanced to trying to flatten the corners and he was beginning to piss off Dean. With one quick movement, Dean swept everything off the table.

'Dean!'

Sam kneeled and Dean closed his eyes and attempted to calm down.

'Why are you being a dickhead?' Sam mumbled. Dean didn't have an answer. Not one he wanted to give anyway. He opened his eyes and saw that his brother was still raking together sheets of paper.

'Leave them,' Dean demanded. Sam didn't listen, so Dean tried again in a less commanding tone.

'I'll look at them later, I promise. Sorry.'

Reluctantly, Sam got to his feet. He looked around Dean's apartment. There were no outward signs of anything alarming. A few of Castiel's things were still present and Dean didn't think Castiel was ever going to come and collect them. Sam probably didn't notice them.

The apartment looked the same as it always had. Messy, but not after-a-month-we-smelled-something-funky-and-noticed-that-a-stack-of-old-newspapers-had-crushed-the-cat-to-death messy. So, you know, it looked fine. And Dean didn't have a cat to crush.

'You want me to go so you can finish your pie?' Sam asked.

'Kind of, yeah,' Dean admitted. Sam shrugged.

'Ok, see you tomorrow.'

Like the good brother he was, Sam left. Dean stared at the door for a while, until he remembered what he had planned on doing. He made a beeline for the fridge and sliced another chunk. Slowly chewing, he sat down.

One of Castiel's stumpy yellow pencils was lying in the rubbish bowl on the kitchen table. It was, as the name implied, a bowl filled with rubbish. As usual, it was pretty full. Key chains, bits of paper, a couple of foreign coins, three shiny pebbles, a deficient light bulb and the pencil were its current occupants. Dean didn't like pencils. He was strictly a pen guy. That probably said something about his character. Like that he was decisive and didn't think before leaping, or some bullshit to that effect.

He wondered what Castiel's exclusive use of pencils meant. That he was careful, suspicious of making things permanent. Dean groaned and some pie splattered across the surface of the table. What was next? An analysis of his handwriting?

Sadly, Dean even missed the berating. _Especially_ the berating. The warm, skinny body next to him in bed. Those moments when Castiel would look at him and Dean knew that Castiel was thinking about him as well. Well, he had thought he knew. Clearly, he had been wrong again. He swiftly eradicated all thoughts of Castiel by starting on another piece of pie. Halfway through, someone decided it was a good idea to bother him a second time.

'Oh, come on!' Dean yelled in frustration at the sound of knuckles softly tapping his front door. He marched over to the door and yanked it open.

'You haven't come to badger me too, have you?' he asked Pamela. She frowned.

'Not sure yet. Who badgered you?'

Dean closed the door behind her and returned to his pie. It wasn't as if Pamela could be bothered by his eating habits as long as he kept the sound down to a minimum. Or, in Dean's case, to an acceptable level of grossness. He directed Pamela around the papers strewn on the floor and swallowed a mouthful before explaining.

'Sam. He's digging into the murder at the construction site. I specifically told him to stay out of it. Three people are dead and one person tried to commit suicide because of this whole damn mess.'

Fuck, that ached. Not sure why. Castiel was a jerk. An asshole like all the others. Dean had convinced himself with every one of them that they were not jerks or more than just jerks and he had been proven wrong every single time. The thing with Castiel had been no different. So, letting go was long overdue. It was one of the few things Dean was good at. He'd wake up in the morning and discover he didn't care anymore.

So, why wasn't he able to let it go now? He'd wake up in the morning, but instead of not caring he kept worrying about Castiel and wondering how he was doing. More often than not he had nightmares about Castiel stepping in front of that bus. That visual wasn't going to go away any time soon.

'Do you think that's connected?'

Dean looked up from his plate and found himself grateful for Pamela's blindness. Of course, he immediately felt ashamed. Yet, the feeling remained. Pamela was perceptive enough as it was; it would be unbearable to have her actually see how affected he was by what Castiel had done.

'Yeah, I think it's all related, so I don't understand why Sam wants to risk getting in the middle of it,' Dean said. Pamela shook her head. It was a very distinct headshake and Dean had been on the receiving end of it numerous times. It saved her the trouble of having to say that he was a moron.

'Sam is trying to distract you,' she pointed out. Obstinately, Dean poked into the pie. A little apple bit became dislodged and landed on Sam's papers. Did he even _want_ to know? Wouldn't it be better to leave everything to the police?

'From what?'

Yet, there were also questions that the police might not be interested in, but that Dean did want answered. Like; why did Crowley visit Castiel?

It wasn't a courtesy or sympathy visit from the boss, because Crowley was neither courteous nor sympathetic. Technically, Crowley wasn't even Castiel's boss, since the real estate developer was his employer. Perhaps it was about the deaths due to the designs, but it was far more likely that Crowley would have sent an attorney for something like that. The last option was that Castiel, like Dean, had been one of Crowley's many lovers. Somehow Dean found that difficult to imagine. Also, if Dean ever ended up in the hospital, Crowley sure as shit wouldn't visit him. Why make an exception for Castiel? Unless it wasn't any of those reasons and Dean didn't have enough information to see the bigger picture. Presented with this particular unanswered question, Dean leaned over to snatch the fallen apple piece up.

'You know from what, which brings me to what I came here to tell you. Castiel requested me as his therapist,' Pamela announced. Dean almost fell off his chair. There was also a certain amount of slack jawed staring involved.

'He what?'

'Don't look at me like that. I am just as surprised as you are. If you don't want me to I'll refuse,' she offered.

'No. No, that's fine.'

'I don't want you to get your hopes up. I can't tell you anything he tells me in therapy,' Pamela warned. While Pamela was an excellent therapist, Dean wasn't so sure she'd get Castiel to tell her anything. The man clammed up faster than, well, a clam.

(***)

Three days later.

The elevator had broken down for the third time that month. Dean didn't need an additional excuse to be mad, but maybe he did need some extra exercise, so he tried not to get too worked up over the long time it took to get to his apartment. According to Sam and Pamela, the pie was making him flabby. Panting, Dean came into the hallway.

One of Pamela's patients was closing the door of her apartment. Her sitting room doubled as a counselling practise. The patient was Castiel. Foolishly, Dean hadn't considered the possibility that he might run into Castiel.

'Hi,' Dean stammered.

Castiel didn't seem angry or annoyed to encounter Dean. To Dean's relief, he didn't appear indifferent either. God, let me not be imagining this, Dean pleaded. Castiel looked depressed. There was loneliness in his eyes. Of course, Castiel had been lonely from the beginning. He had simply been very good at hiding it. Not anymore. Yet, it wasn't only the fact that Castiel's feelings were out in the open now. This was not just any old unspecified loneliness.

'Hi Dean.'

'You look good,' Dean ventured. It was simultaneously the truth and a lie. For a man who had recently collided with a bus, Castiel was looking well. For someone under normal circumstances, his appearance was less wonderful. His face was ashen, except for the dark circles around his eyes. He had a pronounced limp. His hair was sticking up every which way and looking mightily unhealthy. Castiel nodded and Dean realised that their talk was over.

As Castiel walked to the stairs, Dean hoped with all his heart that he was please please please not being an idiot. That it was really there in Castiel's beautiful blue eyes and his controlled movements. If he was making this up... Every single one of his crappy instincts was telling him that Cas had to struggle not to reach out and touch him as they passed each other. Dean was pretty sure that if he shifted a little to the right and bumped up against Castiel they would be in Dean's apartment and fucking within seconds.

That feeling wasn't new either. Lust. Desire. Longing. Want. Dean had felt it all before, but this was different. Whether it was different because it was Castiel or because of something Castiel was doing, Dean couldn't determine. The difference was that it wasn't only physical. He could have sworn that he was missed. Castiel missed and needed him. Maybe.

However, Dean let Castiel pass without incident. He hadn't forgotten those venomous parting words. Yet, it was this improbable near certainty that made Dean ask the question.

'How do you know Crowley? I saw him visit you at the hospital.'

At the top of the stairwell, Castiel paused, but he didn't look around. Suddenly, Dean felt a lot less confident about his intuition. After all, Dean was in the unique position of not needing other people to fuck with his head. Most of the time he did a fine job of that himself.

'We used to date.'


	15. One and only

**Chapter 15: One and only**

Castiel was poised to descend, but Dean simply wasn't ready to let him go yet.

'I dated Crowley too,' he confessed. Now Castiel did turn. There was a wry smile on his face.

'Yes, I know. He cheated on me with you.'

A car horn cut through the following silence. Castiel twitched involuntarily and raked a finger nail over his left eyebrow with excessive force. The skin turned white and then red. Weary, Dean opened his mouth to say something, only to close it again without uttering a word. Castiel and Crowley: it was impossible. Though, in a way, it fit perfectly. But still... _Castiel and Crowley_. Dean's head felt like it was going to explode.

Dean hadn't known that Crowley was dating someone at the same time as he was dating him, but that didn't change anything. It had happened. Unwittingly, Dean had hurt Castiel.

'You obviously didn't know, Dean. I don't blame you,' Castiel said. They heard the same distinct car horn blare a second time. Dean observed how the other man lowered his head and closed his eyes as if trying to block out the sound.

Dean moved to the window to see what son of a bitch was being so liberal with the honking, but Castiel stopped him. His hand rested lightly on Dean's shoulder. The fingers were slimmer than usual; unnaturally thin. Dean tried to act cool, but couldn't prevent a shudder from running through him.

'What about...' Dean started, but his voice was ridiculously hoarse. His cleared his throat and began anew.

'What about the investigation? Did you get charged with something?'

That wasn't at all what he had wanted to ask, but while Dean might be a glutton for punishment, even he had some sense of self preservation. So, impersonal inquiry about the construction site accidents it was. Castiel took away his hand and used it to vaguely wave the issue away.

Yeah, that was normal. After all, the police only suspected him of negligence which had resulted in the death of two people. Nothing to worry about. A third blare sounded. To Dean it seemed that every honk made Castiel look more miserable. Dean's head was spinning, trying to process the new information as fast as possible. He needed to be like Sam, able to separate issues and handle them in the right order. First, is someone picking up Castiel?

'Balthazar?' Dean asked, with a nod towards the window and the source of all the unnecessary and irritating honking.

'Crowley.'

'Are you two together again?'

Just a regular, friendly question. Nothing riding on it.

'Yes,' Castiel said. It was a good thing that the galling honking had ended, because Castiel's answer was hardly audible. He looked like a poor excuse for a human being. He _was_ a poor excuse for a human being.

His hangdog demeanour inspired no sympathy in Dean. Quite the opposite. In that moment, Dean remembered what they had shared and all the things he hadn't fucking imagined. Almost head butting a supporting beam, falling off a roof, getting shot at, watching Castiel step in front of a bus: those were Castiel's fault.

'Whatever you and I had, it's over now. I meant what I said at the hospital,' Castiel stressed. It would be really nice if I could punch the unwarranted misery off his face, Dean grimly thought. Fortunately for Castiel, Dean wasn't that kind of guy. Instead, he glared at Castiel.

'Alright,' Dean said. Without sparing Castiel another glance, he went into his apartment and shut the door behind him. Angry, he looked around for something to smash. Nothing leaped out at him, mostly because he would also have to clean up after his destructive rampage. He snatched Castiel's stupid pencil out of the bowl, but it was too short to get a good grip on and resolutely refused to be snapped in two.

Raging silently, Dean threw it to the floor and stomped on it. That's when he spotted the pile of papers. The pencil still wasn't giving way, so he tore into the papers instead. He trampled, he ripped, and at one point he even bit.

In the end, all he had accomplished was making a mess. In addition, he felt galactically stupid. It was a definite promotion from his regular stupidity. Shredding paper wasn't very manly either. Dean felt it was pretty close to burning someone's pictures in order to get 'closure.' However, while he felt dumb, he also felt better.

There was something that nagged at him, though. Essentially, the same thing had happened to Dean that had happened to Castiel. Dean had been dating Crowley and, unbeknownst to him, Crowley had also been dating Castiel. Yet, Dean personally wouldn't qualify what Crowley had done as 'cheating.' You needed to be in a serious, exclusive, potentially long term relationship to get cheated on. Crowley and Dean didn't so much date as fuck. There was no commitment on either side.

Not that it mattered. He was done with the whole fucking thing. Crowley, Castiel, conspiracies; as of now his caring was suspended indefinitely.

(***)

Two days later. Pamela's apartment. They were eating take out Chinese and Dean was feeling fidgety. It was because he was sitting in the therapy chair. It was called the therapy chair, because it was where Pamela's patients sat. So, it was where Castiel had been sitting not so long ago. Eventually, Sam caught Dean's incessant shuffling around and sighed.

'Just let it go, Dean. Let. It. Go. What's so different about him that you can't?'

Pamela chose that moment to almost choke on her eggroll. Though Sam was farthest away from her, he was the first one at her side. He patted her back, much too lightly to Dean's liking. Pamela wasn't made of glass. Not very ladylike, Pamela coughed and gestured for Sam to really slap her back.

'You okay?' Sam asked. He stayed kneeled next to Pamela, peering at her face with something akin to worship. Weirdo, Dean thought. When Pamela was able to speak again, she turned to Dean.

'Is it because Castiel is _the one_?'

She spat out the words as if they were the offending eggroll and it seemed to dim Sam's admiration considerably.

'That tone was uncalled for. Now you've upset Sam. It's like Santa all over again,' Dean joked. Even he knew that he was merely postponing the inevitable. They weren't going to let him off that easily.

'No, he isn't the one. I don't even like him. He's an asshole. Plus, I'm the king of letting go, so don't worry: it's over.'

Sam was getting to his feet, making sure to look as unimpressed as was humanly possible. Pamela grabbed his hand and squeezed, which caused him to flush bright red.

'Are you buying this?' she asked.

'No.'

'Shut up and eat. Another eggroll?' Dean groused.

(***)

A week later.

Dean had his pride. If someone wanted to be left alone, he was not going to bother them. He wasn't a stalker or anything. So what if he _happened_ to be in the hallway around the time someone's appointment with Pamela ended? So what? Dean lived there; he was entitled to be there.

'I hate myself,' he muttered darkly. He had wanted to convince himself as much as Pamela and Sam that it was over, but it clearly wasn't. If it was he wouldn't have been pretending to enter his apartment for the last five minutes.

To his relief, he didn't have to wait too long for Castiel. The man in question exited Pamela's apartment and looked glad to see Dean. Not that Dean was going to trust his intuition regarding Castiel ever again, so Castiel could have looked ecstatic and Dean would have felt the same. This was such a mistake. It might even be the biggest mistake in a long line of mistakes.

'Is he picking you up today?'

'No.'

'Why are you with him?'

Castiel thought this over, despite the fact that there was only one answer to that question. He appeared to realise this.

'I guess I love him.'

'You guess you love him?'

Warily, Dean repeated the words and shook his head. He couldn't believe he was listening to this shit.

'You_ guess_ you love him,' he mouthed.

Ignoring Castiel's despondency, Dean turned the key and opened the door of his apartment, but halfway across the threshold he changed his mind. He was so mad that he was shaking. In vain, he tried to contain his anger as he turned around and faced Castiel. This was exactly what he had expected, but the lacklustre response really made his blood boil. And Castiel standing there as if he was ready to take whatever insults Dean would sling his way only served to infuriate Dean further.

'You know what, Castiel? Fuck you and your fucking bullshit. I haven't done a damn thing to you. Why don't you give me a real fucking answer, instead of peddling this weak ass crap?' he sneered. Castiel remained rooted to the spot. Meek motherfucker.

''I guess I love him,'' Dean imitated his lame explanation. The continued silence of Castiel reminded Dean painfully of the episode at the hospital. I won't give in, Dean warned. I can't give in, he urged. Violence was the legacy of Dean's childhood and perhaps it was also in Dean's nature, but he wasn't going to let it win. He screamed furiously and observed how his outburst startled the other man. Swallowing his anger down, Dean approached Castiel.

'I fucking love you, asshole! I don't _think_ I love you, I don't _guess_ I love you; I love you.'


	16. Please let me get what I want

**Chapter 16: Please please please let me get what I want**

Dean wasn't willing to await a reaction to his angry declaration of love, so he entered his apartment. Turning his back on Castiel was a tactical mistake. He realised this as he was knocked down. The door slammed shut behind him. Despite Castiel's skinny frame, Dean felt the weight on his back acutely. His sneakered feet scrabbled across the floor as he attempted to gain enough traction to flip onto his back. His arms were trapped under his body, but nonetheless he tried to push up and throw Castiel off.

'What are you...?' Dean snarled, but in the midst of his sentence he managed to unbalance Castiel. Immediately, Dean freed his hands and went for Castiel. For a moment, he was on top, but Castiel wriggled out from underneath him. They rolled over one other, crashing into the kitchen table, all the while groping and scratching.

It took Dean a while to realise they weren't fighting. Well, _one_ of them wasn't fighting: Castiel was trying to kiss him. It was painful because Dean's jaw hurt from the fall. Blood slowly filled his mouth, trickling from his split lip. Some of the blood was on Castiel's chin and mouth. Their teeth clashed together when they kissed. Dean slipped his hands into Castiel's hair, feeling the patch of short hair growing over the scar from the operation.

The thing that caused him to stop was how cold Castiel felt. Why was Castiel feeling so cold? They got to their feet and, cautiously, Dean licked his lip. Castiel was not making any attempt to remove the red smears of blood from his face. However hard Dean struggled to resist it, he was aroused.

'On your knees,' Castiel demanded.

Dean lowered himself to the floor. It wasn't because of Castiel's domineering voice. It wasn't because of how perversely turned on he was. That wasn't out of the ordinary. It was because of the wonderful feeling of being allowed to touch Castiel again. Dean licked the outline of Castiel's cock, wetting the front of Castiel's linen trousers. While his hands shook with longing, Dean unbuttoned and unzipped them. His tongue continued to tease through the tight fabric.

'No, take off your clothes,' Castiel impatiently growled. A tiny damp spot was spreading across Castiel's underwear and the sight made Dean shove down his jeans and boxers in one go. He kicked off his sneakers and socks. Pulling his shirt over his head, he stepped out of the rest of his clothes. Castiel shimmied out of his trousers and underwear.

There was no time to think. Castiel's commands followed each other too fast.

'Get down on all fours.'

'Open yourself up.'

'Spread your legs.'

The sex fell somewhere between indifference and hate. Perhaps more on the side of hate. As if Castiel wanted to punish Dean for daring to express his love. It was quick, over in a grunt. Dean barely registered that it was over, until Castiel pulled out.

'Now fuck me,' Castiel rasped. With a leaking cock, Dean readily complied. He crawled over to where Castiel was sprawled on his back on the floor and dipped down. His tongue traced around Castiel's opening. The architect shuddered under the gentle strokes of Dean's tongue and Dean stretched him out. Parting Castiel's legs and hoisting the left leg unto his shoulder, Dean firmly cupped Castiel's ass. He buried himself up to the hilt in Castiel.

Less than a minute had passed, but suddenly Castiel was no longer cold. His blue eyes still glowed icily, but his body was blazing. Their basest of desires were on display. Sometimes, when Dean's fingers dug deeper into Castiel's flesh and his cock slid further inside, it felt like he wasn't fucking another man at all. It seemed as if he was touching and rocking into the scorching heat of pure lust.

Yet, while they groaned and Castiel arched his back and everything was hard and rough and hot, there was something completely else at the centre of their lustful encounter. As Dean rolled his hips and Castiel clenched tightly around his cock, their gazes never wavered. For the first time, Dean realised that to drown in someone's eyes wasn't just something losers said. Castiel's eyes were like anchors and they were pulling him under.

As they collided time and time again, their bodies developed a subliminal language. Castiel received every thrust by bucking up to take Dean in deeper. His fiery intensity was like words. A constant litany of _hate me and hurt me_. Needless to say, Dean didn't listen. His own message was much stronger and surer. It had started out as a simple _fuck you_, but somewhere along the way the message had changed. Now Dean pounded out a steady rhythm of _love you_.

'I love you. I love you. I love you,' he whispered. Castiel closed his eyes and Dean took the opportunity to lean down and kiss him. Faltering, Castiel opened his eyes.

'I love you,' Dean repeated. This is what I'm giving you, Dean thought. Take it or leave it. Castiel writhed underneath him and moaned hoarsely and tried desperately to confirm the sordidness of their affair. On the floor. With Dean's blood on their lips. Wrong. But nothing Castiel did could alter the nature of what they were doing. As they fucked, they also made love.

And when they neared the end, Castiel decided to accept that. One more time, Dean thrust into Castiel and Castiel bucked upwards. It wasn't a willingness to be hurt that compelled the motion; it was Castiel opening up and letting Dean in. Literally and figuratively, Dean surmised. It is a hell of a thing to be thinking things like 'literally and figuratively,' while sperm is streaking your stomach and the man you love is milking your cock during his own orgasm, but that was what Dean was thinking.

He kissed Castiel again and clambered off. Happiness flooded through him. It's a fact of life that happiness exists solely to be crushed; that was one of Dean's theories, but he completely forgot about it. Smiling lazily, he stretched out on the floor and looked over at Castiel. Instead of also being in a state of bliss, Castiel had cleaned himself off with a kitchen towel and was dressing.

'I want you to know that I miss everything about you,' Castiel said, but he didn't look at Dean when he spoke. Through a haze of happiness, Dean watched Castiel leave. A truly appalling possibility occurred to him. What if this wasn't about me, he thought; what if this was Castiel's way of exacting revenge on Crowley?

No, something happened. Something happened between them. Castiel missed him too. That wasn't enough, though, because Dean didn't want Castiel to miss him. Neither did he want to miss Castiel.

(***)

Later that day.

'Let me get this straight. You dated Crowley, who is a dick, which is a given since you liked him, and at the same time he was dating Castiel. And now Castiel is dating Crowley again, but today you told Castiel that you loved him and you two slept together.'

'Not so much slept as...'

'Spare me the details, Dean. So, when did Castiel find out that Crowley was cheating on him? How did he find out? Did he know it was you from the beginning or was he throwing himself in front of a bus because he had just then found out it was you? And how did he discover it was you if he only found out a couple of weeks ago?'

Sam stared at him as Dean toyed with the stubby pencil, letting it roll across the kitchen table and catching it at the last moment before it threatened to topple over. Like the pencil, Dean was dangerously close to falling off the edge of happiness into anxiety and Sam wasn't helping matters.

'I don't know,' Dean admitted. His brother heaved one of his patented immense sighs and Dean didn't know how much of this he would be able to endure. Sammy was seriously raining on his parade. A parade of really great sex and finally connecting to Castiel. That was a fucking awesome parade and Sam was ruining it.

'I wanted to say you're not asking the right questions, but it seems you aren't asking questions at all,' Sam criticised. Annoyed, Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Sam raised his hand as if to say he shouldn't bother, which was just as well. He hadn't quite known what he was going to say anyway. A defence that included several warnings from Castiel to back off and one prime example of Castiel practically fleeing after the aforementioned great sex wasn't really going to help.

'Alright. Let's go back to the beginning. When did you date Crowley?'

Furrowing his brow, Dean thought back to one of the numerous low points in his dating history. They hadn't dated for very long; a month tops. He could still remember vividly the day they broke up. He had woken up because he felt a searing pain on his abdomen and found Crowley burning him with a cigarette. That had been the final straw and Dean had left him. It had been raining outside and there had been leaves on the street. Autumn.

'At least a year ago, I think. Maybe closer to two.'

'Two years ago? People don't suddenly get back together after so long apart,' Sam objected and Dean realised that Sam was right. Triumphantly, Dean looked up.

'I told you that something fishy is going on.'

'Castiel's a dick; _that_ is what's going on,' Sam replied sceptically. Dean glared at him and when Sam didn't look he pricked his own palm with the pencil stub. It felt more like stabbing. The stub was surprisingly sharp and it smarted.

'Do you really love him? Or was that just something you said to get into his pants?' Sam asked. His face was unnervingly earnest as he waited for Dean's answer. Suddenly, Dean was very interested in the surface of the table as he jabbed at it. The pencil broke and Dean reluctantly looked up.

'I do,' he said and smirked, 'But getting laid was a nice bonus.'

(***)

One week later.

'Yeah?' Dean called out when someone knocked. He hadn't decided yet whether he was going to go through the humiliating experience of trying to talk to Castiel this week. On the one hand, it could lead to sex. On the other hand, he could be told to stay away again or learn that Castiel was satisfied to keep missing him. Perhaps Pamela was popping over before the therapy session, she sometimes did that.

'Door's open,' he added. Castiel came inside and enveloped him in an embrace. His hands slipped under Dean's shirt and the gesture felt alarmingly natural. In between kisses, Castiel mumbled things like 'had to come,' 'miss you so much' and 'must be crazy.' As sudden as the onslaught of tenderness had begun it ended and Castiel was out of the door.

'Wait. Where are you going?' Dean asked, following him into the hallway.

'Therapy.'

'And afterwards?'

Dean knew the answer to that and he could see that Castiel didn't like to say it, but it still needed to be said.

'Back to Crowley,' Castiel admitted. Apparently, missing Dean was indeed a state of mind that Castiel felt comfortable with. That realisation hurt like hell, but Dean tried not to show it.

'Why? Why are you with him?'

That question... Fuck me, Dean thought; why am I asking that again? He hadn't liked the answer the first time around. There was no reason to assume he would like it better now. Instead of offering up a tepid response however, Castiel visibly struggled to provide an answer.

'I can't tell you. You won't be able to let it go,' Castiel stated. Dean had to smile at that. He approached Castiel and leaned in as if he was going to divulge some confidential information.

'I don't know if you've noticed but I'm already majorly not letting it go,' he whispered. Castiel allowed a tight smile to grace his features too, but it faded fast. Conflicted, he looked at Dean.

'He's blackmailing me,' he eventually said. While this revelation must have felt liberating for Castiel, it was rather disturbing for Dean. It quelled some of his fears, but resurrected more worries. And questions. The questions kept multiplying like rabbits.

'With what?'

'With something I haven't done.'

Just then, Pamela appeared and beckoned Castiel over. With an apologetic smile to Dean, Castiel went in, ignoring Dean's dismayed mumbling.

'Yes, now is an excellent time to leave. It isn't as if you've left me with a cryptic answer that only begets more questions. _Begets_? I don't even know what that means. Oh, for fuck sake, I'm talking to myself.'


	17. Q&A

**Chapter 17: Q&A**

During the weekend, Dean decided to do some research. He hated research. Research was Sam's department. It was hard, boring work. Googling stuff, sifting through papers, making lists; if Dean had wanted to do shit like that he would have gone to college.

Also, what he really wanted to do was go to Castiel's apartment and pepper him with questions and feel his skin under his fingers. Make him hot again. Drive away the loneliness. It would quell the feeling of longing that kept travelling through his body. One moment it was floating around in his head and he was just missing Castiel. The next moment it would nestle in his navel and he would physically feel the loss of the architect.

He had felt that before. He had felt everything before, but now he felt it even more. More intense, which wasn't a good thing. Because there was Crowley and whatever it was that Castiel hadn't done and trouble. Normally, Dean liked trouble. He was trouble, he attracted trouble, trouble was his middle name and all that.

But not this time. Just for once he'd like it easy. Too late for that, huh?

It had dawned on Dean that the reason Castiel was always leaving in a hurry might not have anything to do with him, but rather with Crowley. Perhaps Crowley was keeping an eye on his prize. Dean shuddered to think of Castiel in those terms; it was typical of Crowley to approach everything as a game and to regard people as property.

Therefore, Dean had asked Pamela whether she'd be willing to concede her hour of therapy with Castiel to him, so that they could talk. He could still hear Pamela's words to his request.

'Castiel is severely depressed.'

Not quite knowing how to react to that, Dean had attempted to make a joke about the confidential nature of the therapy sessions.

'It's not confidential if any yahoo can see it,' she had snapped. After a little prodding, she had admitted that Castiel hadn't spoken a word to her apart from 'hello' and 'bye.' It clearly worried her that Castiel was in such bad state and was refusing her help. Dean had argued that, because the blackmail was at least partly responsible for Castiel's unhappiness, the best thing to do was to resolve the situation. To give him hope. So, Dean pleaded and eventually Pamela relented.

Half a day into his research project and only keeping at it for Castiel's sake, Dean had Sam over. It was their father's birthday and Sam had stupidly insisted on visiting John. Dean thought it was a waste of time since John usually didn't remember what day of the week it was, let alone that it was his birthday. However, Sam was free to do whatever he chose as long as he didn't expect Dean to come along. Neither of them mentioned the occasion, though Dean knew Sam had gone there in the morning.

It was a good old Winchester habit to ignore the unpleasant. Of the three Winchesters still alive, Dean probably made the most use of this handy tradition. It enabled him to look at Sam without... Well, without remembering certain things. Perhaps Sam did it too, but somehow Dean doubted it. Sam was all for forgiveness. Sometimes Sam simply didn't understand that it was a hell of a lot easier to forgive someone else than to forgive yourself. And Dean wasn't that good at forgiving to begin with.

Without asking, Sam started to make a sandwich, which pissed Dean off until he saw that his brother was preparing lunch for them both. It was a little annoying how Sam seemed to regard Dean's apartment as an extension of his own, but a sandwich was enough to appease Dean. He was easy that way. As they ate, Sam looked over the information Dean had uncovered so far. He'd had to redo everything Sam had done, because he had tossed those papers out, which had been stupid. What else was new?

'We should talk to some people in person about Gabriel Brown. Give his description, you know. Maybe the name is real and the profession fake or vice versa. He could be a private investigator. Or someone who for some reason changed his name or temporarily used someone else's name,' Sam suggested.

'You don't give a shit about Castiel, so why do you want to help?' Dean inquired. The sandwich was really delicious and he knew he was being argumentative – or plainly trying to pick a fight, like his father would say – but he vividly remembered how Sam had warned him to stay away from Castiel after the latter's bus mishap. Swallowing, Sam looked at him with astonishment.

'What do you mean? You know I'm a literary softy; he had me at Mark Twain. Plus, I can't let my research muscles atrophy.'

'Nerd,' Dean mumbled. They grinned at each other.

(***)

Saturday night.

The light in the bar was dim and the place was packed with people. Smoke had curled up against the ceiling for so many years that the white plaster had turned a yellowish brown. The stench of cigarette smoke clung to the walls and overpowered the smell of liquor that had seeped into the floorboards. This was where Dean had met Crowley. He wasn't sure what he was doing here. If he had just wanted a drink he could have gone to a number of other places.

The plan had been to relax after a day of visiting decorating firms and detective agencies, but this was the wrong place. Dean had a feeling that he was secretly hoping to run into Castiel somehow, because a week was too long. Too long a time not to see him. The way to the bar was a struggle and he had to raise his voice to order a drink. There were no tables free, so he retreated to an empty corner, miraculously without spilling his beer.

He nursed his beer, sipping it slowly. There was a lot more that needed to be done the next day and he'd have to get up early. In this stage of his fruitless investigation, he couldn't afford to get drunk.

The beer lasted about two hours. Dean, liking the feeling of being able to hold onto something, held the bottle in his hand long after it was empty. Snippets of conversations drifted his way, reminding him uncomfortably of what could have been Castiel's last phone call. In an attempt to erase the image of Castiel stepping out into the road from his mind, he gripped the bottle tighter.

'Isn't that Dean?'

The people were standing too closely together and the haze of smoke was too thick to see who the speaker was.

'Who?'

That voice was familiar: Castiel.

'That construction worker.'

Now he realised that the first voice belonged to Crowley. Dean lowered his beer and, eventually, he noticed the two men. Castiel wasn't looking at him. Crowley's left arm was slipped possessively around Castiel's waist. _Mine mine mine_. Ill at ease, Castiel finally looked in Dean's direction and their eyes connected across the crowded room.

'Oh, I guess, yes. I forgot his name,' Castiel muttered, already turning away. Even though Dean knew that Castiel was lying, the casual indifference of his remark stung. Crowley smirked at Dean. Of course, Dean thought; that's the proper response when you encounter a guy you once used as an ashtray. A couple left and Castiel and Crowley sat down at their table.

Dean's hand trembled a bit; he didn't understand what that was about. After exchanging a few words with Crowley, Castiel went to the bar. He studiously avoided looking at Dean. Though Dean found that his bottle was still empty when he brought it to his lips, he didn't take the opportunity to get another drink. He tried not to stare at Castiel, but he was unsuccessful.

To be so close to Castiel, yet, not allowed to touch him was tough. Dean didn't think he would be able to stand it for long. Castiel returned to the table with drinks, but didn't sit down. Before making his way to the restroom, he spoke to Crowley again. With his heart pounding in his chest and a wise voice in his head urging him to resist the temptation, Dean put his bottle on the nearest table and followed him in.

There was another man. He was facing the wall, taking a leak. Castiel was splashing water into his face in front of one of the three wash basins. After glancing at the third man, Dean took place at the middle basin and pretended to appraise the state of his hair. He leaned over to Castiel.

'I liked that. You: pretending not to remember my name. It's a nice touch,' he whispered. Startled, Castiel checked the mirror for any sign that the other man had heard.

'He can't see us together,' he hissed.

Dean nodded to show he understood, though he only realised later that he might not have. Not completely. Crowley was the one who couldn't see them talking, as far as Dean had been concerned, but to Castiel nobody was allowed to see them.

There were no towels; not even one of those machines with the wet, already sullied paper ones. Castiel dabbed at his face with the back of his hand and his sleeve. The third man zipped his pants, washed his hands and then they were alone.

'Crowley doctored the designs, didn't he? Made it seem as if you miscalculated the weight and density? That's what he's got on you,' Dean asserted. His voice was suddenly loud in the small room. The dirty tiles didn't absorb the sound, but flung it, magnified, back at them. Castiel sighed and shook his head. It doesn't matter; that's what he's going to say, Dean thought.

'I shouldn't have come to you. I shouldn't have said anything. You have to...'

'I'm not letting it go, Cas. Whether you want me to or not, I'll help you.'

Castiel shook his head again. They stared at each other. The light in Castiel's eyes had faded. Like a flame caught in a draught, it was dancing weakly, but one puff of breath and it would be gone. Gently, Dean reached for his cheek. Castiel leaned into the touch. His skin felt cold beneath Dean's fingertips and his cheek was hollow. _He_ is hollow, Dean thought.

After a couple of seconds, Castiel kissed him. His lips briefly but tenderly brushed against Dean's and then they were gone.

'Thank you,' he whispered and left. Dean stayed behind and grimaced at the tiles. They were so greasy that he could spot a blurred reflection of himself in them. Dean Winchester the Saviour. It was a change from Dean the Victim who's only a victim because he's Dean the Idiot. He just wasn't sure he was up to the task.

After he had composed himself, he exited the restroom and ordered another beer. He slinked back to his corner and observed them. It was nonsensical to torture himself like this, but he did.

They behaved like an average couple. Crowley couldn't keep his hands off Castiel and not once Dean saw Castiel shrink away from his touch. Instead, he seemed to welcome the affection. Several times he even initiated the contact. Dean swirled the beer around in his mouth, trying to make it last longer, relishing its bitter taste.

Hand in hand, Castiel and Crowley left the bar. Feeling a headache start to form, Dean downed the last of his beer and squeezed his eyes shut. It was the smoke. He had been inhaling it all night and the upcoming headache was the result. Outside, he threw the bottle into a trash can. Two beers over more than four hours: he would be alright to drive.

The parking lot wasn't illuminated properly; most of the lights were broken. While his eyes adjusted to the dark, he fished in his pocket for the car keys. A noise caused him to turn around. At first, Dean thought it was a cat. That fitted with the soft mewling. But then he saw the couple under one of the few working lights. One man with his back to the wall, the other man kneeling before him.

Dean realised with a shock that it was them: Castiel and Crowley. Now he also heard the eager slobbering sounds Crowley was making as he was sucking Castiel's cock. Crowley must have arranged this so that I would see it, Dean thought. At the back of his mind, however, Dean also entertained the notion he had simply inadvertently stumbled upon an intimate moment. The lack of expression on Castiel's face quickly laid that doubt to rest.

There was a faraway stare in his dull eyes. His face was blank. He kept making perfunctory noises to indicate pleasure. A light sheen of sweat had developed on his skin. Suddenly, his eyes focused and he searched for something to latch onto. When his gaze came to rest on Dean, Castiel's mask slipped for a second and the muted pain underneath was revealed. Dean took a step towards them intending to... To what? To grab Crowley and pull him off Castiel, but a curt headshake from Castiel stopped him.

'No,' he mouthed, or perhaps 'Go.' Dean wasn't certain: he was in no shape to read lips. What was clear was that Castiel didn't want him to intervene. He should go. He tried to move. He watched.

Castiel motioned with his hand behind Crowley's head for him to leave. Dean finally did. Clearly, it was what Castiel wanted. Without looking back, Dean got in the Impala and drove away.

(***)

Sunday.

It occurred to Dean, after he had exhausted all the interior decorators and private detectives in the city, that Gabriel Brown - or whatever his name was – might be a journalist. It was better than the other possibility, which was that the murder victim fell into one of the other two categories but was an out-of-towner. If I were a journalist, I'd like to nail Crowley, Dean thought. Crowley was a front page story. An unscrupulous man with shady connections and even shadier business deals and building projects: a publicity goldmine.

He began to contact newspapers. What he wanted was difficult to explain to impatient secretaries and busy reporters. Apparently, the Monday edition was more important than his inquiry. After a few failed attempts, Dean remembered that Stanford had a newspaper too. The fake interior decorator had looked young. It was worth a try.

After mocking Dean's hunch for a couple of minutes, Sam gave him the number of the _Stanford Daily_. Dean called them. While he waited, he started to question the call. It was still one week before the academic year started. What sane university student would spend their summer pretending to be an interior decorator to gain info on one of California's most dangerous men?

When he asked the person who answered the phone point black whether they were one journalist short, he got put through to the editor's office.

'Andrew Finney speaking. Who are you?' a pleasant voice asked.

'Dean Winchester,' he said and immediately he realised that he wasn't exactly going about this the right way. Why the hell did he give his real name? Damn. Well, what's done is done.

'Have you got a Gabriel Brown on staff?'

A terse silence on the other end of the line ensued.

'No. Are you with the police?'

Dean contemplated lying, but impersonating a police officer probably also wasn't a smart thing to do. Especially not now that he had given his name.

'No, but I am investigating the murder at a construction site from a couple of months ago. Gabriel Brown wasn't the victim's real name, right?' he tried. It was a last ditch effort, but his entire 'investigation' had been a giant fishing expedition. In any case, the guy's reactions to perfectly normal questions were off. First the silence and then the strange assumption that Dean was a cop.

The editor breathed and Dean listened and waited.

'I don't feel comfortable discussing this over the phone,' Andrew eventually said.

'But you know something?' Dean asked. Of course the guy knew something, otherwise there would be nothing to discuss, but Dean needed confirmation. After all, his sixth sense was as shitty as the twist of almost every M. Night Shyamalan film.

'Like I said; I'd rather not do this over the phone,' Andrew repeated. 'If you give me your address, I'll send you some things.'

Since Dean had already given the editor his name, he saw no harm in also providing this. He was elated by his success even if he didn't yet know how reliable the information would prove to be. Actually making some headway was nice. After Andrew had taken down his address, Dean squeezed in one more question.

'What you're sending me... Did you also hand that over to the police?'

'I have no desire to become involved in this matter,' the editor replied and hung up. In all likelihood, Gabriel Brown had uncovered something about one of Crowley's many illegal businesses. Now I have some progress to tell Castiel about, Dean thought. He smiled.

(***)

Therapy day.

When Dean and not Pamela opened the door to him, Castiel appeared surprised. After his initial confusion, he smiled.

'Wasn't I the one with delusions of grandeur? Are you a psychiatrist now?' Castiel asked. Dean didn't return the smile and didn't answer. He directed Castiel towards a chair, ignoring Castiel's attempt to kiss him.

'I want you to tell me about Crowley. The nature of your past relationship with him, what it is exactly that he is using to blackmail you, why he is doing it: everything,' Dean demanded. As he sat down in the therapy chair, Castiel paled.

'What is the absolute worst thing that ever happened to you?' Castiel asked. He sat perfectly still. A dab of colour returned to his cheeks, but he remained unnaturally wan. Dean businesslike answer came swift.

'My father used to beat me. Your turn.'


	18. Right as rain

**Chapter 18: Right as rain**

'Your father...' Castiel mumbled, shocked.

'We don't have time for this,' Dean pointed out. Part of him felt sorry for Castiel for dumping it on him like this, but he was also well aware that Castiel was stalling.

'Dean...'

'Your. Turn,' he said. They only had an hour. They needed to be quick and thorough and his childhood simply wasn't important. Castiel raised his eyebrows and Dean braced himself.

'Are you certain that you want to do this?' Castiel asked. Of course not, Dean thought. I don't want to hear about all the horrible things Crowley has done to you or why you are so important to him. I don't want to go up against a very rich and influential gangster. They stared at each other.

'Yes.'

Castiel took a deep breath and nodded.

'Alright. Crowley... I met him when I was seventeen. We were together for eleven years. We lived together. I was under the impression it was an exclusive relationship, until I one day received a phone call about his old apartment. Apparently, he had kept it. I went there, he opened the door and it was immediately obvious what was going on. He smelled like sex, there were clothes that weren't his strewn over the furniture – your shirt with the patch with the cartoon bear – and there was some guy humming in the shower,' he explained.

'Care bear,' Dean muttered.

'What?'

'Never mind.'

'I broke up with him. He called and showed up on the doorstep of my new apartment. He practically stalked me. Then he stopped. I thought it was over. But he's a contractor, I'm an architect: our paths were bound to cross. I accepted work from developers and sometimes his company got the job, sometimes they didn't. I didn't encounter him again. Until he called me. It was after I found out that you were the one he was sleeping with.'

Castiel's tone was detached and he stared hard at Dean as he spoke. His words had come easily. Only now had his reluctance resurfaced. The pause lasted for a few seconds and eventually Castiel resumed. His gaze was no longer fixed on Dean, but on the floor.

'Crowley said he knew that the police was investigating me and that he would make it go away if I came back to him. I refused. He admitted that he had framed me. He didn't seem to understand that I didn't love him anymore, because he kept asking me whether I hadn't loved him. I said I had once and hung up. You know the rest.'

Gloomily, Dean nodded. He knew what came next. The suicide attempt.

'Why'd you do that? Why didn't you come to me? I would have helped you.'

'How? He planned this for almost two years. You can be sure that he bribed and threatened everyone to ensure that his plan was airtight. What could you have done?'

Dean realised that Castiel was probably right. There wasn't a whole lot either of them could have done. Yet, Castiel had accepted defeat awfully quick. It wasn't like him. On the other hand, none of this was like Castiel. Being in a relationship with Crowley, living with him: it was so different from the Castiel he knew.

'While you were together... did he ever do anything to you?' Dean hesitantly asked. It was difficult to believe that this was it. That someone as worthless as Crowley cheating on Castiel could have turned him into the angry, insecure, cynical mess he was when Dean had met him.

Raising his head, Castiel pondered Dean's question in a rather scary objective fashion. He seemed to know what Dean was thinking. A blush crept across his pale cheeks and he looked ashamed. As if it wasn't enough. As if something far worse should have happened to him. As if finding out after eleven years that the man you love isn't faithful couldn't compare to being beaten by your father. Embarrassed, he shook his head and focussed on the floor again.

'And now?'

'Now I'm his whore, but he treats me like his partner,' Castiel replied. It was hard to read his tone, because there was no tone to read. The only thing Dean could detect, and it disconcerted him, was amusement.

'Do you think he loves you?' Dean ventured. Sharply, Castiel looked up.

'He certainly thinks that he loves me.'

They discussed possible courses of action. Dean told Castiel about his phone conversation with the editor of the _Stanford Daily_. He didn't mention that he had yet to receive the promised package. They argued about the original designs. Castiel's apartment had been broken into, presumably when he was in the hospital, because when he had returned the papers had been gone.

'But people have seen the originals, haven't they? Building plans need to be approved and amended and checked and all sorts of shit, right?' Dean inquired, puzzled. Impatiently, Castiel explained that naturally people had seen his plans. The developer, city officials, dozens of other people. The problem was that none of them were dumb enough to go up against Crowley. They valued their lives and jobs to much. If Crowley said that the designs had always been wrong, then they'd agree.

'And what about the police?'

Again Castiel explained that it was probably not the police they needed to worry about. All the evidence against Castiel was in place, but thanks to Crowley the DA was sitting on it. Right now, the designs were simply a mistake that had been made and he didn't see any point in prosecuting Castiel. If Castiel did anything to piss off Crowley, the DA would suddenly change his mind.

'They're friends. The DA and Crowley. We had dinner together a couple of times.'

Disheartened, Dean considered their situation. They had risked their lives a few times and they still had nothing to show for it. All they could hope for right now was that Andrew Finney would send them something useful. With extreme reluctance, Dean pointed out that the hour had almost passed.

They both stood up and hugged awkwardly. By the door, Castiel paused.

'It's very nice that you're trying to help, but if I were you I wouldn't get my hopes up.'

Dean closed his fingers around Castiel's wrist and Castiel turned in surprise. His eyes widened when Dean pushed him against the door.

'I'm not trying,' Dean said. Then, following some crazy impulse, he kneeled and unzipped Castiel's pants. He pulled the other man's jeans and boxers down to his knees and took Castiel's cock into his mouth. The weight of that familiar cock on his tongue was good and Dean realised that what he was trying to do was erase the element of duress from the act. Instead, while Castiel hardened, Dean kept having unwelcome flashbacks of Crowley and Castiel in the parking lot.

Finally, despite the fact that Castiel was clearly enjoying it, Dean had to stop.

'This reminds me of Crowley and you...' he said, apologetic, as he got to his feet. Castiel looked uncomprehending for a moment – which made Dean wonder how many times Crowley had forced Castiel into performing sexual acts.

'It's not the same,' Castiel protested. His tone was meant to be reassuring, but it did little to reassure Dean. He waited while Castiel pulled up his boxers and jeans. When he had straightened his clothes, he looked at Dean and smiled.

'I see you're being an idiot again, so I'll spell it out for you. It's not the same, because I want you. And on that note, I'll leave.'

(***)

Wednesday.

'Could I speak to the editor? Dean Winchester. I called last week too,' he said. The girl recognised his voice or his name. Either way, the next thing Dean heard was Andrew's soothing voice.

'Andrew Finney speaking.'

'Hi, it's Dean. Dean Winchester. We talked about your missing reporter and...' Dean began, but his introduction was cut short unceremoniously.

'You have to stop calling here,' Andrew demanded. His voice sounded a great degree less soothing now that he realised whom he was speaking to.

'Yes, I know what you said, but the...'

'Don't call me again,' Andrew yelled and then Dean was listening to the dial tone. He redialled and got the girl on the phone. Receptionist, secretary, just another reporter? Dean asked for Andrew Finney, but the girl said that he had left for the day. She is probably lying, Dean thought, but by the time he'd arrive at Stanford everyone would be gone for the day.

(***)

Thursday.

'Dean Winchester again. Could I speak to the editor?'

'Unfortunately, Mr. Finney is away on holiday, so he cannot come to the phone,' the same girl from the day before informed him. Now she was definitely lying. What student or teacher or whatever the hell Andrew Finney was takes a vacation at the start of the academic year?

'Could you give me the number of his cell phone? It's urgent,' Dean insisted. He realised that, despite his polite tone, he sounded aggressive.

'I'm not at liberty to divulge that information,' she calmly replied.

'When does he return from his holiday?'

'I'm not at liberty...'

'Yeah, I get it,' Dean snapped. Don't do that, he admonished himself. Yelling rarely got you anything and that was especially true for phone conversations where all the other person had to do was hang up.

'Would you give him a message? Just tell him I haven't received his package,' Dean civilly resumed. The connection was crystal clear, but he didn't hear the girl writing anything down. Instead, she stonewalled him.

'When he's back from his holiday...' she began and the reiteration of the lie set him off.

'Oh, for fuck sake! He's not on holiday. He clearly doesn't want to talk to me. That's fine. Just please give him the message as soon as possible.'

There was a slight pause at the line before the girl answered. Her voice was even calmer and sweeter than before.

'If Mr. Finney doesn't want to talk to you, why don't you do us all a favour and give up?' she suggested. Dean smacked his forehead, loudly. Too late he realised that this might be interpreted as some sort of stupid threat, instead of the self-punishment it was.

'Are you going to give him my message?'

Dial tone.

(***)

Friday.

'Dean, I've tried, but the girl at the desk always says he's out when I ask for him. But he isn't really out. Several times I've seen someone moving around in his office when I was there.'

'Let me guess. You gave her your real name?'

'Yes.'

'Great. Can't you just force your way in there?'

'No, _Dean_, I can't. I go there. I can't go around harassing fellow students and members of staff. And I've got other stuff to do. Becoming a lawyer requires hard work. I know you think being a lawyer is about yelling 'I want the truth!' at the right time, but it's a bit harder.'

'Seemed to work for Tom Cruise.'

Dial tone.

(***)

Saturday.

'We can try googling Gabriel Brown,' Sam offered. They were sitting at the kitchen table, Dean's laptop, as of yet, not of much use. Sam was doing that hovering, huffing thing over Dean's shoulder that Dean particularly hated. Abruptly, Dean swivelled round, forcing Sam to lean back.

'How do you propose we do that when we don't know his real name?' Dean asked. To his intense irritation, Sam leaned closer and surfed to the _Stanford Daily_ website.

'We look at photos from the staff. This is exactly why people think I'm the smart one, Dean.'

Reluctant to acknowledge that Sam's suggestion was good, Dean nonetheless clicked on the header 'staff.' A list of names appeared. A list that was longer than Dean had anticipated, but still manageable. Only the first letter of the first names was given and the surname was given in full. There was no G. Brown, which was expected.

'Do the G's first. If I went undercover I would just change my last name,' Sam suggested. Another good suggestion. Dean grudgingly agreed, though he couldn't resist casting aspersions on his brother's spy abilities.

'You couldn't even lie to Finney's receptionist about your name, so let's put your undercover delusions to bed, shall we?'

Sam's nostrils flared, he pressed his lips tightly together and gave the back of Dean's head an un-amused stare, but his bitch face went unnoticed because Dean had already started clicking on names. Every name was a link to a photo and biography of the staff member in question. There was a Gene Daniels, a Gus Eden, a Gina Klein, a Gilbert Pierce and a Gabriel Richards. Gabriel Richards looked an awful lot like a fake interior decorator by the name of Gabriel Brown.

The biography didn't provide any useful information. It listed some of Gabriel's other interests, mainly theatre, and that was it. Dean felt disproportionally disappointed. Now, they at least had confirmation that Gabriel had indeed been a reporter for the _Stanford Daily_. Thus, he could have uncovered some unsavoury secrets of Crowley and that could have led to his death. And maybe, definitely maybe, Gabriel had given some of his material or sources to Finney, who was after all the editor.

Dean groaned. It was proving a lot harder than he thought to establish contact with Andrew Finney again. And all Dean wanted to know was what the package had contained. Alright, and maybe he also wanted to know whether Finney had copies of the lost - or intercepted? - package's contents.

He turned the laptop over to his brother, who rooted out Gabriel's address in a matter of minutes. There was nothing even remotely edible in the fridge, so after gazing at its empty interior for a while, Dean wandered back to Sam's side. On a lined notebook, Sam was scribbling down info. At the top, a date was circled that had already passed. It was John Winchester's birthday. Dean felt a stab of guilt, which was quite surprising, since he hadn't felt anything approaching an emotion regarding his father for a long time.

'By the way, I told Castiel about what dad did.'

Sam looked at him sharply before resuming his writing.

'I hope you provided some context.'

'God, Sam! _What_ context? He can't even claim drunkenness as a defence. He beat mom and when she died I took over for her. Nothing's gonna make that alright,' Dean shouted. Taken aback, Sam put down the pen he had been holding and stared at him. Son of a bitch, Dean thought, where the hell did that come from?

'I'm sorry,' Sam carefully said. He looked chastised, but Dean felt no satisfaction. Sure, Sam was always defending their sorry excuse of a father, but it wasn't as if Dean was some sort of saint.

'No, I'm sorry,' he muttered. Sam was still staring at him. Undoubtedly, the little shit was thinking that this was a prime therapy moment. He was probably contemplating whether he could now safely hug Dean.

'You're nothing like him, Dean. You were the victim.'

Well, well, wasn't this a nice _Good Will Hunting_ moment they were having? So, it wasn't his fault. His own fucking brother was lying to make him feel better. If Dean remembered the scene correctly, Sam didn't just get a hug; Dean was also expected to cry. The big one, the break through. It would never happen, because it had already happened and they both knew it.

'Hardly,' Dean answered, avoiding Sam's penetrating gaze.

'You didn't mean it when...'

'Yes, I did,' Dean snapped. After a few angry seconds, he added, 'And whether I meant it or not, it doesn't change a fucking thing. I don't need you to make excuses for me, like you do with him. Yeah, I'm sure dad has a nice little fiction where I asked for it, or deserved it, or he didn't mean it too. So, stop pretending it was okay for me to hurt you, because it wasn't.'

(***)

Six years earlier.

Dean closed the door behind him and put the groceries on the kitchen counter. With any luck, John would have come and gone and Sam would be doing his homework. In that case, Dean could lie on the couch and watch TV and not worry about either of them.

'Sam?' he called out, while he put milk in the fridge. John emerged from the hallway leading to their bedrooms.

'I've eaten, so you don't have to go to any trouble for me,' he mumbled. He was always mumbling to Dean and not quite looking at him and it made Dean want to wipe the stupid expression of shame off his face. Instead, Dean crumpled one of the paper bags between his fingers and threw it into the trash.

Shame; what a fucking useless emotion. Never stopped him from beating his wife or his son.

'I wasn't going to,' Dean said. John smiled, but the smile quickly vanished when he realised that Dean wasn't kidding. Disposable razorblades and cans of shaving cream needed to be taken to the bathroom and Dean took them out of the second bag and placed them on the counter. Pitifully, in Dean's eyes, his father was dawdling, as if waiting for permission to leave.

'Don't you have somewhere to be?' Dean asked. He practically looked John away, who didn't say anything, but just left, slamming the door behind him. The sheer pathetic state his father was in inspired compassion in Sam, but it only made Dean madder.

'Sam?'

With the cans and razors in his hands, Dean made his way to the bathroom. What he saw when he opened the door made him drop what he was holding. Sam was holding up his sweater and inspecting his back in the bathroom mirror. When he heard the clatter of the razorblades and the dull clang of the cans hitting the floor, he quickly lowered his sweater, but it was too late.

'Can't you knock?'

'What the fuck is that?'

Trying to brush past Dean, Sam winced. Ignoring his brother's obvious discomfort, Dean stayed put in the doorway. Sam was already taller than him and wide in the chest. He looked like a man, people usually estimated him to be eighteen, but he was just fifteen. Smart as hell, but a boy all the same.

'Get out of the way,' Sam whined, but Dean still wasn't budging.

'Like hell I will. Did he do that?'

During a tense minute they stared at each other. Sam: obstinate. Dean: insistent. Eventually, Sam nodded and Dean let him pass. Dazed, Dean followed him into the living room. There was old, dried blood on the light brown carpet. Dean's blood. A little bit of John's blood. But maybe also Sam's; who knew how long this had been going on.

Sam stood with his arms folded in front of his chest. A million things were racing through Dean's mind. How dare that bastard? How fucking dare he? Not Sam. Why didn't Sam tell him? Sam knew that Dean would have killed John, so why hadn't he told him? _Because_ Sam knew that Dean would kill him. Because he wanted to protect John or Dean or both.

As Dean sat down on the couch, he looked at Sam. His earlier assessment held. His brother definitely didn't look like a kid. Why didn't he stop John? He easily could have. Dean was about the same age as Sam was now when he had struck back at his father and John had never hit him since. If Sam didn't want to risk having Dean kill his father, then why didn't he stop John himself? Why did Sam let John beat him?

'Why...?' Dean asked, but he couldn't get out the rest. Sam shrunk away from him. He didn't seem inclined to offer an explanation. He merely stood there, as if he was on trial. As if he was to blame for what had happened. He looked ashamed. The shame was etched on his face and damn it if he didn't look just like John in that moment.

Only half knowing what he was doing, Dean got up from the couch and approached Sam.

'You didn't do anything,' Dean said. Sam flinched and the shame was momentarily gone, but it flooded back immediately. Dean didn't know what it was he was trying to say.

_It was not your fault. You did nothing to deserve what he did to you. _

_It was your fault. Precisely because you did nothing to stop him; it was your fault._

The shame on Sam's face was mocking him, so Dean pushed him. Sam's back collided with the TV set, which causes him to yelp in pain. And Dean... He was like his father, after all, because it only made him push Sam harder.

'You just let him!' he yelled, punching his brother. Sam was saying something, maybe. Maybe, but Dean couldn't hear him nor could he see his brother's lips moving. That was good, since now he didn't have to see the shame either. His fists wouldn't stop; they seemed to have a mind of their own. Dean grinned. That was probably also a thing John told himself.

'You let him,' he repeated. Sam was on the floor, not making a sound, but Dean kept hitting him. Raising his arm again and again and plunging it into Sam's eerie silence. He felt tired, though. It took so much trouble to raise his arm and the blows were glancing. Barely connecting.

On his knees, panting, Dean looked at his hands. His knuckles were busted and there was blood on them. His brother's blood. It was on the carpet too. He rubbed at the specks, rubbing them well and good into the carpet.

'Why do you let him?' he mumbled and sagged on the floor. He had lain here many times, staring at the individual plucks of coarse fabric and the faded wallpaper. A little bit closer to the wall, John had broken Dean's left wrist by stomping on it. Ah, memories.

'Are you alright?' Sam asked. His face looked bad, really bad, like a slab of raw meat. Yet, he was leaning over Dean, asking whether he was alright. Tears trickled from Dean's eyes. Sam embraced him. Now there's blood on my shoulder too, Dean thought, which made him absurdly cry even harder.

'Sammy, I didn't mean...' he mumbled into Sam's damp sweater. The smell of blood and sweat was overwhelming. Sam patted his back, while Dean's hands didn't quite know where to go. What area of his brother's body hadn't he turned into a bloody mess? Sam's voice was soothing as he whispered with absolute conviction two words.

'I know.'

(***)

Still Saturday.

'What are you two doing?' Pamela asked, startling them both. When Dean glanced at Sam, he saw that his brother had also been reliving that dark page in their history. From the other side. The side that had kept Sam home from school for a month, because otherwise there would have been trouble. Dean vastly preferred that side. If given a choice, he would always be the one receiving the punches and not doling them out.

'Oh, you know. Just talking about our shared traumas,' he eventually said, attempting to express levity he didn't feel. Losing his temper with Sam; that was why, even after the accident, which wasn't an accident, Dean had refused to see John. He was too much like him. Too close for comfort.

'Water under the bridge,' Sam stressed. With a quizzical expression, Pamela entered the apartment and closed the door behind her.

'What yahoo saw it? You said that every yahoo could see that Castiel was depressed, but you're blind,' Dean explained. He thought he knew the answer, but he would like to get it confirmed. It would confirm two things. First, Sam saw Castiel, probably at Pamela's. Second, that Sam and Pamela were spending time alone without him.

'Yes, thanks for enlightening me, Dean,' Pamela dryly replied and gestured towards Sam, 'the yahoo right there told me.'

Dean grinned and nudged his brother.

'She just called you a yahoo,' he pointed out, but Sam just smiled. Dean recognised that smile. That was how his own face had looked pretty much permanently, and even in the mirror in the morning, when Castiel had lived with him. Sam was in love.

Coming into the living room, Pamela nearly walked into a side table.

'Stop. There's a side table there,' Sam warned and she stopped.

'Am I almost bumping into it? I shouldn't be,' she said, puzzled. Feeling around, she located the edges of the table. She straightened up and looked accusingly at Dean.

'Did you move this?'

'Yes, because my life has been so spectacularly crappy as of late and surely that has something to do with my furniture. Now that I practise the art of feng shui, I'm sure my life will improve exponentially,' Dean responded.

'That table has been turned 45 degrees,' Pamela confidently stated. During the sex with Castiel, some furniture had been displaced, but Dean had tried to put everything back into its original position, knowing it would be a pain in the ass for Pamela if he didn't do it right. But that had been in the kitchen; surely they hadn't also rearranged the living room? Sex that rearranged the living room; ha.

'I must have bumped into it and forgotten to put it back. I'm sorry.'

'Bumped into it? Is that what the kids are calling it these days? Have you _bumped into_ some furniture lately, Sam?' Pamela asked. Sam turned bright red, but that smile was still smack dab in the middle of his face. Could it be that Sam was in love with Pamela? Pamela was a good ten years older than him and not really into students, even if those students went to Stanford. Crazy, Dean thought. Sam was struggling to avert the attention from himself and landed on one of Castiel's greatest fears.

'What will Crowley do if he finds out about you and Castiel?'


	19. The science of selling yourself short: 1

**Chapter 19: Son of a bitch (The science of selling yourself short pt 1)**

Saturday night.

There had been a short period in Dean's childhood when his classmates had found his bruises cool, instead of a cause for concern. John made up stories for other parents and concerned neighbours about Dean being a juvenile delinquent who continuously got into fights, because Dean refused to lie about where he got his bruises. Somehow the kids always got wind of John's lies. That, in combination with his injuries and tough attitude, briefly equalled cool.

In reality, Dean had rarely done anything worse than steal some gum from the supermarket. This was probably why breaking into someone else's house was unnerving. Yes, he had entered a crime scene, but Castiel had been with him at the time. He could have asked Sam to come with; sure. The irony was that he was trying to keep Sam out of trouble and asking him to commit robbery was kind of exactly the opposite of that.

Since he hadn't even told Sam about his earlier criminal pastime and his subsequent target practice experience – practise in being the target – he wasn't about to tell Sam about this illegal adventure. Thus, Dean was alone.

The house was huge. It stood a little apart from its neighbouring houses, which served Dean well. As he sneaked around the back, he prayed Gabriel didn't have a surprise roommate or a vicious guard dog. There had been no signs of activity in the house all evening. No one moving around, no sounds, no lights coming on when darkness fell. Dean was pretty sure it was abandoned. Still, he had had ample time during his amateur stake out to wonder about the house.

Gabriel Richards was a student. Students generally didn't live in houses this big, unless it was with their parents or a bunch of other students. But from the looks of it, Gabriel had been the sole occupant of the house. Maybe his parents were rich enough to rent or buy a house for him, but that didn't explain the shabbiness of the house. It was big, but also poorly maintained.

The garden was full of weeds. One part of a rainwater pipe that was supposed to be attached to the roof was lying on the muddy lawn. The windows were stained; the paint on their wooden frames was badly flaking. A new coat of paint would do wonders. A long and alarming tear showed through the bricks and cement at the side of the house. Dean wouldn't want to live in a house that was so obviously in need of repair, no matter how enormous it was.

Wrapping a cloth around his hand, Dean broke one of the tiny windows in the back door. When he encountered no barking or other noises from inside, he stuck his arm inside and located the locks. Luckily, none of them required a key. Quietly, Dean opened the door and eased inside.

Where was Gabriel's family? Where were his friends? Why had no one reported him missing? Dean didn't get it, but he was relieved to find the house completely silent and empty of inhabitants.

The inside of the house was little better than the outside. In the beam of his flashlight, Dean looked at the cracked, grey tiles of the hall's floor. The cabinets in the kitchen were worn, some doors hanging askew or half open. The plates on the table were chipped; their patterns faded. Everything looked to be either old, dirty, broken or all of the above.

Dean straightened – he realised he had been walking hunched over for some reason – and scanned the kitchen. It had obviously been left for what had been supposed to be perhaps a few hours and had turned out to be forever. The plates on the table had a sloppily scribbled grocery list next to them. The unclosed cabinets were left open in haste. He recognised something uncomfortably similar to his own apartment: organised chaos.

For Pamela's sake, his apartment was tidier. If she wasn't blind, if Sam didn't whine about dirty dishes and old newspapers; this could have been him. That begged again the question: why the hell had no one reported Gabriel's disappearance to the police? Surely, if someone had, then they would have confirmed by now that Gabriel Brown was Gabriel Richards.

Shaking his head, Dean moved into the living room. This was a mess of a different order. Bookcases had been roughly pushed aside, leaving scratches on the wooden floor. Papers were scattered. Clearly, someone had been in here before him, also searching for something. They had probably found what they had been looking for, which meant Dean was on a fool's errand. Well, if the shoe fits, Dean thought with a grin. He sighed and went back into the kitchen and started to open cabinets and empty them of their contents.

Several hours later, he looked at his watch, cursed and went up the stairs. Why couldn't life be more like a movie? Then he would have found the evidence that would clear Castiel and maybe even a tape of Crowley confessing some other crimes in the first few minutes of the search. Now he had covered the entire ground floor and had nothing to show for it. Halfway up the stairs, he paused for a second, took another step and paused again. Slowly, he exhaled. It was almost a whistle.

'Son of a bitch,' he whispered. It hadn't been the sex. Someone had been in his own apartment, doing the exact same thing as had been done here, except with less of a mess to show for it afterwards. But why...

'Un-fucking-believable,' he muttered. Un. Fucking. Believable. Either he was becoming as paranoid as Castiel or he had just realised how far Crowley would go. Could his apartment really be bugged? His hand gripped the railing as he tried to remember all the things he'd done and said. There was the info on Gabriel that they had found on the web, phone conversations with the editor and the discussions with Sam about Castiel. Shit, Sam. Sam had been there, pretty much every step of the way.

This was crazy. He was definitely paranoid. On the other hand, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not after you. Who had said that? Kurt Cobain. Ah, who the hell cares? He should have bought a gun.

It was easy. He should have bought a gun and he should have practised. With his luck, though, he'd most likely shoot himself in the foot when the moment came to use it. Or shoot Sam or Pamela. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Dean gripped the railing tighter, watching his knuckles turn white. The anger was clarifying. Not muddling his mental faculties like usual, but connecting the dots. A bigger picture began to materialise and a plan. It remained more reacting than acting, but it was a start.

Releasing the railing and the breath he had been holding, Dean emerged onto the landing. At least Crowley had not gotten Gabriel's address from him. That much was clear from the copious amounts of dust covering everything. The house had been searched shortly after Gabriel's death and no one had been inside since. With a steely determination, Dean resumed the search. Upstairs: also nada.

How long had he been trying to find something, _anything_? Months now. And all they had was a name. Dean was beginning to understand why Castiel couldn't even allow himself to be cautiously optimistic. There was still an hour to go before sunrise, so Dean did another cursory search of the house, doing ridiculous things like looking behind paintings and knocking on floorboards in the hopes of finding a secret compartment. The solid brick walls absorbed the sounds of his failure to uncover anything.

It was dawn when he switched off his flashlight and softly closed the door. A sneeze behind him made him wish again that he had bought a gun. Dean turned around to find perhaps the most non-threatening person he had ever encountered standing before him. The man looked friendly and apprehensive. He wore rectangular glasses that framed his reddened eyes. He slouched a little bit and nervously made jittery movements.

'You must be Dean,' the man asserted. He wiped his nose with a big, red handkerchief, thereby explaining his extremely nasal voice.

'Who are you?' Dean asked suspiciously, not about to lower his guard or confirm his identity.

'It's nice to finally meet you. We spoke on the phone. I'm Andrew Finney.'

(***)

Sunday.

'What are you doing?'

Sometimes – most of the time – Sam was really annoying. Right now was one of those times. He was either suddenly really stupid or purposely trying to irritate Dean, since it was not hard to see what Dean was doing.

'What does it look like I'm doing?' Dean grumbled. His brother took a second look at the dirty cloth in Dean's hand and the step ladder upon which Dean was standing and turned down the volume of the radio. Cocking his head to the left, Sam finally ventured a guess.

'Cleaning?'

'Well, there you go.'

Of course, Dean wasn't actually cleaning; he was attempting to sweep the apartment for bugs without anyone who might be listening finding out. There were no cameras as far as he could tell. That was good because otherwise this whole pretending-to-clean subterfuge would have looked pretty stupid. There were, however, listening devices. So far, he'd encountered three in the bedroom, one in the bathroom and five in the living room.

Upon further reflection, Dean had decided that the bugs couldn't have been there for long, because Pamela was over almost every day and she would have noticed the moved furniture earlier. Thus, the plant probably happened _after _he had talked to Andrew Finney. Maybe his phone call to Andrew Finney had even prompted Crowley to place bugs, which meant that Crowley had already been watching or bugging Andrew. This kind of thinking made Dean's head hurt.

'But... It's Sunday morning. _Morning_. And you never clean,' Sam insisted.

If the whole situation hadn't been so needlessly complicated, Sam's confusion would have been comical. As it was, Dean decided that he was plenty sure about the apartment being bugged, so he jumped off the ladder.

'Not true, Sam, since I'm doing it now.'

Refusing to abandon his befuddled expression, Sam continued to stare at him. Dean tried to turn up the volume, but his brother stopped him.

'Don't you have more important things to do? Help Castiel, for example,' Sam asked. Good old Sam: all about the helping. Here goes, Dean thought. Put in your best effort. You can do it.

'No. He's an asshole. Not worth my time,' Dean said. He didn't look Sam in the eye, but neither did he avoid eye contact. His gaze hovered, free to be caught. His tone was a study of averages too. Casual, but not too casual. Determined, but not fiercely so. Simply stating the facts. Blatant lies, naturally, but to Dean's relief Sam swallowed it hook, line and sinker. Apparently, a lifetime of lying to himself had prepared Dean for lying convincingly to his brother.

Unfortunately, judging by Sam's stance – his head held high, his hands on his hips – Dean was about to be lectured.

'I cannot believe you are doing this. This is about more than Castiel. It's about Gabriel and the construction workers who were killed and others who are still in danger. It's about justice,' Sam grandly declared.

'Sticking it to Crowley, you mean,' Dean mumbled, but Sam's angry glare silenced him. They glowered at each other for a while; Dean more amused that he had managed to fool Sam than mad. However, he was not about to turn this into a debate. Not with the bugs everywhere, so before Sam could continue his righteous rant, Dean broached another subject.

'Are you in love with Pamela?'

Sam's shifty behaviour and deep blush pretty much answered that question for him. Sighing, Dean sadly shook his head. Sam didn't stand a chance: Pamela would eat him alive.

'You've only got one setting, don't you? All-in,' he admonished.

'Look who's talking,' Sam scoffed. Okay, I deserved that one, Dean thought.

'Sam, don't do this. For fuck's sake, you're still heartbroken about Jessica dumping you and that happened in kindergarten.'

'As I've told you numerous times before, that break up was mutual. And it doesn't matter anyway, you don't have to protect me from anything, because I know that Pamela doesn't think of me that way,' Sam explained. He tried very hard not to sound crushed, but Dean heard it nonetheless. This made no sense. Unlike Dean, Sam was not delusional about love, so unless Pamela had given him a reason to think that a relationship might be possible...

'Has something happened between the two of you?' Dean asked, narrowing his eyes. His brother shook his head. Not as in answer to the question, but in a refusal to answer it, because he was such a gentleman. Sam wasn't a kiss and tell kind of guy.

'What can't you tell me?' Dean needled.

'You should talk to her.'

'So, yes: _something_ has happened. Did you sleep with her?'

'Dean, ask Pamela.'


	20. The science of selling yourself short: 2

**Chapter 20: Sam and Pamela (The science of selling yourself short pt 2)**

Dean felt that he was maybe a little too excited about the day he had planned. So, he decided to go talk to Pamela and ask her about Sam. Discussing what your little brother has been up to - sexually - with your friend, that would surely put a damper on whatever freaky excitement he was feeling.

A chagrined Pamela opened the door. She was suffering from a severe case of bed head; her hair was flat on the left side and frizzy on the other side. Her fingers moved across the dial of her Braille watch and she moaned as she read the time.

'Dean?'

'Yeah.'

'It's not even six. What?' she croaked out, turning her back on him already. Clearly, he was supposed to follow her into the apartment. He couldn't do that, so he yanked her into the hallway. This was not conducive to Pamela's morning mood.

'He might hear us in there,' he whispered, as he closed the door.

'Whatever that means,' Pamela grumbled. There could be bugs in her apartment too, since she was not only his friend, but also Castiel's therapist. He couldn't check. It would be a bit suspicious if he suddenly started cleaning the apartments of everyone he knew. And he didn't want to tell Pamela about the bugs in his apartment. He had already told her too much as it was.

'Sam and you... I hope this thing the two of you got going doesn't mean that you're about to share everything with him,' Dean started. It wasn't exactly an elegant opening, but it was to the point. If there was one thing he feared, it was that she would tell Sam about the whole getting shot at episode. Sam didn't need to know anything about that.

'This thing you're planning, and yes, Dean, we know you're up to something, you should include him. He's not a kid anymore.'

That was technically true, but as far as Dean was concerned law student Sam would always be his little brother, his Sammy.

'Also, what Sam and I have is none of your business, so back off,' Pamela added. She stared at him. Not really, of course, but it sure _felt_ that way. It was fucking creepy.

'I'm going back to bed.'

He would have stopped her, but her non-stare had intimidated him into silence. In addition, she'd said 'have'. Not 'do', but 'have.' You 'have' a relationship. That had thrown him for a loop. They should have been DOA. Instead, it now seemed as if Sam and Pamela were... viable. Weird.

(***)

Perhaps he should have done the same as Pamela and gone back to bed. He was just too wired. Hopped up on coffee, he texted Sam about his talk with Pamela. In the message he referred to Pamela as Sam's girlfriend, which was sure to get a rise out of his brother. Approximately three seconds later, he received a phone call from Sam.

Grinning, he watched the phone ring and ring and ring. Then he retired to the bedroom and selected a volume to read. Sam kept calling him and Dean kept ignoring his calls for the remainder of the morning.

A little before eleven, he stopped trying to read and went outside to wait. As soon as Andrew – still sniffling and nervous as hell – arrived, Dean told him the number of his apartment and sent him upstairs. Then he waited for Castiel.

Dean wasn't quite sure how he was going to handle this. It would be hypocritical to lie about his plan while he had demanded total honesty of Castiel. On the other hand, he didn't want to put Castiel in any more danger. He still hadn't decided when Castiel rounded the corner and came into view.

'Hey,' Dean said. His voice was hoarse. Damn if he didn't want this guy right now. It was stupid and inconvenient. Fucking love.

'I've got a session with Pamela, right?' Castiel asked. He neither looked nor sounded hopeful that Dean had something else to offer him, like hot sex or, you know, information, which was what Dean had.

'My apartment's bugged. Yours and Pamela's might be too. And I've got Andrew Finney upstairs, but he's...' Dean poured out as he pushed away from the wall.

'Crowley knows?' Castiel breathed. Dean quickly explained everything he knew about the listening devices and how long ago he thought they had been planted. The damage was minimal, as far as Dean was concerned. He didn't realise that Castiel had stopped listening.

'Alright,' Castiel stated and he looked at Dean, 'Alright. This is over. You're not going to investigate anything anymore. Just lose the bugs and forget you ever met me.'

'What? No.'

Again Castiel didn't listen. He extended his hand towards Dean and then shook his head as the absurdity of the gesture dawned on him. The bastard actually smiled before he tried to walk away. Dean grabbed his arm.

'I'm not giving up and neither are you, so cut the bullshit,' he hissed. A few passersby threw them curious glances, even when Dean lowered his voice to say that this defeatist attitude wasn't like Castiel. Except it is, a little voice in his mind insisted; remember when he tried to off himself? Annoyed, Castiel yanked his arm free.

'You don't know me,' he snapped.

'You don't know me either,' Dean bit back. They stared at each other. Pedestrians were silently cursing them as they were forced to skirt around them.

'This is _not_ over,' he defiantly added. Suddenly, he was up against the wall and Castiel was kissing the hell out of him.

'Fags,' someone mumbled. Dean didn't give a fuck. Castiel's tongue was in his mouth and his hands were all over Dean. He was barely conscious enough to attempt to wrap his arms around Castiel, but Castiel pushed them back. After a mere few seconds, Castiel pulled away.

'Dean, I love you, but we're done.'

Breathless, Dean watched as Castiel disappeared around the corner. Once his brain started to work again, he remembered that there was someone in his apartment and that he had a plan that didn't really require Castiel's cooperation. He smiled all the way up.

(***)

'Sorry to have kept you waiting.'

Andrew waved his apology away, while Dean tried to mould his face back into an approximation of normal. The corners of his mouth kept moving back into a smile. Then he noticed the light of the answering machine. Sam was so sneaky. He must have called in the five minutes that Dean was talking to Castiel. He knew that the blinking light made Dean anxious and that he wouldn't be able to do anything else before he had listened to the message.

Serves me right for teasing him, Dean shrugged. He was pretty sure that nothing could ruin his mood, so without giving it a second thought he pushed the button. Sam's voice filled the living room.

'First of all, Pamela is not my girlfriend. Secondly, since you insist on being a douche, _I _talked to some reporters from the Stanford Daily. Apparently, Gabriel has a sister who's a writer. Maybe he told her something or sent her something. We should check that out.'

Irritated, Dean sighed. Despite himself, he was intrigued. When he had searched Gabriel's house, he had found absolutely no evidence of Gabriel having a sister. But then again, he hadn't seen anything that indicated that Gabriel had ever met another human being. He should follow up on that. Wasn't it just like Sam to continue the investigation on his own? Damn goody-two-shoes. The message wasn't even finished yet.

'And thirdly, guess who I ran into? I'm in his office now. He did send a package. It contained copies of the original building plans; without miscalculations and his home and office were broken into. But nothing was taken, except the plans. What? Oh, and Andrew says that he's thinks the phone in his office is bugged. Over and out.'

Dean froze. He glanced at the man in his apartment. Then he tried on a disarming smile, but now he had to struggle to maintain one.

'You don't, by any chance, have the ability to be in two places at once, do you?'


	21. The science of selling yourself short: 3

**Chapter 21: Somebody that I used to know (The science of selling yourself short pt 3)**

Well, the jig was up. Not exactly the way Dean had wanted the jig to be up, but there you have it. Beggars can't be choosers. He repressed the ridiculous urge to raise his arms as if he was being held at gunpoint.

'Why didn't you erase the message?' he asked instead. The guy who was probably not an editor kind of... unfolded. He seemed taller. His anxiety was completely gone. Dean wouldn't have been surprised either if he had pulled off a mask _Mission Impossible_-style.

'Hey, I could be the real Andrew,' the man who was definitely not Andrew objected. His cold had disappeared. As Dean had suspected, the man now sounded absolutely nothing like Andrew. His voice wasn't soothing in the least.

'But you're not. So, who are you? One of Crowley's men?'

The man didn't answer. Or rather, he did by producing a gun and screwing on a silencer. It was all done very matter-of-factly. Slow and careful. Clearly, he had done this before. And why wouldn't he be meticulous? There wasn't anything Dean could do. Dammit, why hadn't he bought a gun? He had thought about it a million times. Fuck.

'Killing me is a bad idea. And I'm not just saying that,' Dean joked. The only thing within reach was the rubbish bowl. There was nothing useful in there. Not that a knife would have helped in this situation, but it would have been nice to have one, nonetheless.

'I was told that if I found conclusive proof that the affair was still ongoing I should kill you.'

Not-Andrew raised his gun.

'The apartment is bugged. Crowley will use this against you,' Dean reasoned. He sounded fine, but he was starting to panic. This wasn't how it was supposed to go at all. He hadn't counted on the gun. He hadn't counted on the let's kill everyone in my way approach, which was fucking stupid. It was vintage Crowley. The man smiled.

'When I get home, I'll simply delete the murder,' the man explained. Okay, Dean thought. It was really hard to think that something was okay, while you had a gun pointed at you, but Dean managed.

Okay, Dean thought again, so this guy is the one who listens to the material and then probably briefs Crowley. Does that mean he's also the guy who placed the bugs? Does that mean he's the one that broke into the home and office of the actual Andrew and stole the designs? Is he the one who killed Gabriel?

'So, you killed Gabriel?'

'Yes. When it comes to his and your little amateur spy operations, I'm the only man,' the man said. He appeared to know exactly what was going through Dean's mind and he anticipated Dean's every move before Dean could make it. Stepping a little to the right as Dean inched towards the door, while simultaneously blocking his path to the kitchen.

Suddenly, Dean was strangely calm. This was the end. He wondered whether this was this how Gabriel had felt.

Probably not, because the only thought that comforted and scared Dean was that Sam would never let this go. Sam would dive headfirst into revenge mode. Thus, this would be a good time to mention the cameras that Dean had installed himself. To make sure that Sam wouldn't dedicate his life to avenging his brother's death. Also, to, you know, at least delay _being murdered_.

A knock on the door startled them both. The knock was merely a nod to social conventions, because when she found the door unlocked, Pamela didn't wait for an answer before coming in. The man briefly trained his weapon on her, but visibly relaxed when – Dean guessed – he decided that she was harmless.

It had taken him a while, but Dean was now definitely freaking out. God, not Pamela, he thought.

'Is that Castiel?' Pamela asked, pissed off. Dean vaguely remembered that she'd had an appointment with Castiel. Too bad that he momentarily couldn't remember how to speak.

'No,' the man responded.

'Is he here?' Pamela continued. She did this weird routine with the hesitating steps and the outstretched hands, as if she was a seeing person with her eyes closed. A caricature of a blind person. Dean tried not to show his bewilderment at her behaviour, since the man didn't seem to consider it weird.

'No,' the man answered. Pamela nodded and extended her hand. The man transferred the gun to his other hand to be able to shake her hand. She took it and awesomeness ensued.

'I'm sorry to barge in like this. I'm Pamela, Dean's neighbour and...'

It was awesome. Pure awesome. With a quick, but fierce tug, Pamela pulled the man towards her. Surprised, he stumbled and cried out when she struck his arms. He dropped the gun. It skittered across the floor and under the couch. Then she punched him in the lower ribs. The guy just crumbled. Dean had never seen anything like it before.

It was the opposite of what his father used to do. John liked to keep him conscious and drag it out. This was quick, the man was K.O. and he probably wouldn't suffer any lasting damage.

'Who's this clown?'

Pamela got to her feet, a little flushed, but otherwise looking quite exhilarated. In painful contrast, Dean had to sit down, because his legs were threatening to buckle. He was speechless. Not a very productive state of being when you're communicating with Pamela.

'How did you know?' he squeezed out.

'The tension between you two was palpable, you were panting and I didn't like his tone. I'm a woman and I'm blind: I can't afford not to pay attention to those kinds of things.'

'But what _was_ that?'

'Self defence classes. Like I said, I'm a double target. More importantly, Dean, who is that and why does he have a gun? By the way, perhaps you should search him for more weapons. And if I were you I'd tie him up before he comes to too,' Pamela suggested, by and large shrugging off every wonderful thing she'd done.

Her attitude was disconcertingly blasé. Maybe because she had heard crazier shit as a therapist? Dean remembered one girl who ate her own hair. Still, this was not something that happened every day.

Heeding Pamela's advice, he got a pair of handcuffs from the bedroom and chained the guy to the radiator. All he had on him was a phone, which Dean removed. Then he retrieved the gun and shoved it into a kitchen drawer. Afterwards, he proceeded to tell Pamela the entire story, because he could see no way out of it now.

'That he wants to kill you, well, that's understandable, but Sam would have been next and no one touches him,' she commented. Not the response he had expected. Those two idiots really needed to talk to each other. Dean couldn't claim to have keen instincts when it came to love, but sometimes it was just obvious.

They both drank a glass of water, before considering what to do now.

'He said he had evidence, right? About Castiel and you? What could that be?' Pamela ventured. Dean couldn't think of anything. The guy had literally said 'conclusive proof' and Dean was pretty sure that his apartment had been bugged _after_ the sex and the kiss. If that wasn't true, Pamela would have noticed the misplaced side table much sooner, since she came over all the time.

Did obscure mentions of their relationship count as conclusive proof? Dean didn't think so. He thought the impostor had pretended to be Andrew to get that proof. Fortunately, Dean hadn't trusted him and had told him nothing. The real Andrew had no reason to stand outside Gabriel's house at night. The real Andrew hadn't wanted to touch this mess with a ten foot pole. The biggest clue had been the cold: the only way for Dean to know the real Andrew had been his voice. So, Dean had been more than a little suspicious when he finally met Andrew and he conveniently had a cold.

Dean had given him absolutely nothing. He hadn't even mentioned Castiel's name. Disheartened, he stared at the rubbish bowl. The man had intended to kill Dean; that much was clear. His gaze shifted to the man's phone.

Apprehensive, he picked it up. Flipped through the texts in the inbox. Nothing that could be interpreted as incriminating. His outbox was a different story. He didn't recognise the phone number, but the picture that the impostor had sent with the text was crystal clear. Castiel pushing Dean against a wall and kissing him. Dean walked over to the window and looked down at the street corner. Shit.

'He sent a picture of us. To Crowley, I think,' Dean informed Pamela.

'Go,' she urged.

'The gun's in the kitchen drawer. Tranquilizers are in the bathroom cabinet,' he rambled. He paused for a second before adding, 'Maybe you should call Sam.'

That was entirely up to her. Everything was going to hell at an alarming rate, so Sam would find out soon enough anyway. He grabbed his keys. Damn Castiel and his attempts at breaking off whatever they had going. He dialled Castiel's cell and apartment, leaving 'He knows' voicemails at both when Castiel didn't answer.

It reminded him too much of the pre-bus situation. He kept trying to reach Castiel. What if Crowley's plan doesn't stop at killing me, he thought; what if he plans on killing Castiel too? Ignoring the angry honking of other drivers, Dean abruptly pulled over when his phone rang.

'Castiel?'

'No, it's me. Dean... I don't know how to say this. I'll just... Dad died,' Sam whispered. He sounded on the verge of tears. This was not something Dean felt equipped to deal with under the circumstances. Or ever, to be honest. Yet, he was amazed at his reaction.

'I'm sorry, but I can't talk right now.'

He hung up. He stared at the phone. He started the car again. Damn, he thought. He didn't even feel anything. There was no comfortably numb feeling or shock or whatever normal people feel when their father dies; just nothing. Yeah, he felt bad for being a dick when Sam needed him, but other than that? Nada.


	22. Turning tables

**Chapter 22: Turning tables**

One week later.

'Relax. I'm coming. Jesus!'

The knocking continued. Dean swore loudly and gave up trying to tie his shoe laces. If he broke his neck on his way to the door that would be on Sam. Dean didn't even want to go to the funeral. The only reason he was prepared to go was because it mattered to Sam. Dean didn't give a crap one way or another. Not that he was going to voice any of these thoughts, because his brother was having a hard enough time of it as it was, but that didn't mean he couldn't think them. On that note, shove it, Sam.

When he opened the door, however, it wasn't his brother who pushed past him into the apartment.

'Is he here?'

Crowley didn't wait for an answer. He looked around the living room and kitchen, glancing suspiciously at Dean. It wasn't the most mature or sensible thing to do, but Dean smirked and simply finished tying his laces. Meanwhile, Crowley looked through the two bedrooms and the bathroom. When he came back into the living room, Dean was busy trying to fashion a decent knot.

'Where is he?' Crowley asked. It was more of a demand, really, but Dean's attention didn't waver from the task at hand. The knot didn't look right. He undid it and started over. His tie was beginning to show some serious wrinkles.

'Mind telling me who you're looking for?' Dean countered. His eyes met Crowley's in the mirror. Mister Big Shot was not amused.

'Castiel,' Crowley gritted out, 'Where's Castiel?'

'Don't know,' Dean mumbled. This tie thing was hard. He didn't know whether the mirror was helping or whether the reverse image was messing him up. Just when he thought that he might be onto something – over instead of under; yeah, that could work – he was interrupted by a truly impressive litany of obscenities. Screw it, Dean thought. No tie. He turned around, straightening his suit jacket.

'What's the matter? Problems with the surveillance?' Dean said. Crowley didn't seem surprised, which was to be expected. After all, the fake Finney hadn't reported to him for a week: he must have known something was up. Crowley tried the 'I'll get it out of you somehow' approach. Too bad that intimidation tactics had never worked on Dean. Not when John had threatened him with another beating if he would tell and not now either.

'I have no idea what you're attempting to imply. _If_ I was watching someone, it would be you, not him,' Crowley quickly backtracked. He was completely out of control and they both knew it. Coming here and showing his hand likt that was very out of character. Dean had never known Crowley to put himself in a position where he might lose a fight. In fact, Crowley didn't do fights. Still, even now the slimy bastard didn't drop his guard enough to confess to what he'd done. This annoyed Dean, especially since the newly installed cameras would have recorded it.

'No bugs for Castiel? I feel honoured,' Dean quipped. He carefully folded the tie and placed it on the kitchen table.

'I would never violate his privacy!' Crowley yelled. They stared at each other and Dean tried to make sense of this information. It felt remarkably like the truth. The truth according to Crowley, anyway. So, blackmailing someone into a relationship was okay, but bugging their home wasn't? The guy is insane, Dean realised. He leaned back against the table and raised his eyebrows.

'We're a little past moral outrage, don't you think?' he pointed out. Suddenly, Crowley looked very pleased with himself. That was... scary. If Dean had been the praying kind, he would have sent up a prayer then. It would probably have gone something like; for God's sake, no gun.

Fortunately, it was nothing like that. It was merely another stupid threat. It involved a lot of guys knowing other guys who knew other guys: Dean got the gist. Smiling enigmatically, Crowley left. This was going to be a problem. Even more so than it already was. Dean could see that. Shit was piling up and he needed to act a lot faster. He needed to find Gabriel's sister.

'What was he doing here?' Sam inquired, barging into the apartment. There was a lot of that going around today. Pamela followed closely behind.

'Vaguely threatening me. Let's go,' Dean announced, but Sam was having none of it.

'Where's your tie? And where's Bobby?' he insisted. For once, Dean was glad for his brother's ability to zero in on one issue and forget about everything else. Luckily, Sam had decided not to focus on Crowley's visit, but on the funeral.

'It won't...' Dean protested, but Sam had spotted the tie and snatched it off the table.

'Pamela?' he gently asked. You'd think a request would involve some more words, like 'tie' or 'please' or _something_, but all that was said between Sam and Pamela as the tie passed from the former to the latter was a firm, 'On it.' Those guys were getting creepier by the day. Or more adorable. Definitely one of the two.

Dean's head was unceremoniously yanked down. During a respectable effort to strangle him, he tried to explain that Bobby had some other stuff to do.

'He'll meet us at the church,' Dean choked out. When Pamela released him, he loosened the tie somewhat. He appraised her handiwork in the mirror. The knot looked perfect. How come she was so awesome? It was infuriating.

'What are you going to do about Crowley?' Pamela asked. That was the million dollar question. Dean glanced at Sam. He still hadn't told his brother everything. Pamela had said that she wasn't going to, so it was up to him and he wasn't looking forward to it. He couldn't even imagine how Sam would react if he heard about the almost getting shot – twice. The last time had, of course, been the direct result of not telling Sam about everything, but still... Not looking forward to it. At all.

'Take him out back and shoot him?' Sam joked. Dean glared at his brother. And yet, why not?

(***)

For the first time in his life, Dean pitied his father.

Five people had shown up for the funeral. Of those five, two people actively disliked John and one person was only doing her duty and probably couldn't care less. If he was honest, Dean had to group himself with the lady from social services, because he was just doing his brotherly duty and also didn't give a shit.

And then there was Sam. Sam; who had an infinite amount of love to give, even to people who didn't deserve a morsel of it.

Dean examined his feelings again. No, he really didn't care. So, there was one person who cared. Five people present and only one who gave a damn. That, right there, was the result of a lifetime of dedicated douchebaggery. It was fucking sad.

(***)

Later that day, Dean could be found alternately ringing a copper bell and knocking on a beautiful front door. He liked the sound of his knuckles on oak, so he felt almost disappointed when Crowley opened the door. Quickly, he shouldered his way into the apartment. He kept his hands safely tucked away inside his jacket.

'I suggest you leave before I call the police.'

Dean thought that this was a bit rude. Or it might be an indication of short term memory loss and extreme hypocrisy. Either way, he wasn't leaving. Crowley walked to the living room to retrieve his phone. Dean followed him and waited.

The living room was decorated exactly like he remembered it. He had always thought that rich people redecorated every year, but apparently that was not the case. How about that, huh? The things you learn when you're trespassing on private property.

'Do you even know who I am?' Crowley asked, pausing with the phone in his hand. It was a ridiculous question. They had fucked. Crowley had fucked him over. Dean knew who he was dealing with. He said as much.

'You're an asshole. See? I just _get_ you,' he said. That didn't go over well. Still, Crowley didn't make the call. Instead he decided to ineffectually caution Dean some more.

'You don't want to go up against me,' Crowley warned. Could he sound any more like a cliché? Dean didn't think so.

'But I do,' he cheerily disagreed. Crowley smiled. What a fuckweasel, Dean thought. Why did I ever date that?

'You might think so right now, but you really don't,' Crowley continued. The gentle art of persuasion was definitely not his forte, because the more he talked the more Dean wanted to smack the stupid smile off his face. Just for fun, though, he pretended to consider. He tapped his lip and checked his reflection in the marble floor. Eventually, he looked up with the best disingenuous smile he could muster.

'Nah, I'm pretty sure I do,' Dean repeated. This time, Crowley sighed. He placed the phone back in the charger and shook his head.

'I can't imagine what you think you'll accomplish,' he admitted. It was all said in a very friendly manner. Without a second thought, Crowley turned his back to Dean and poured himself a drink. This cosy scene of Crowley sitting at home and scheming was exactly what Dean hoped to disturb.

'You've been comfortable for far too long. I'm taking the fight to you.'

Crowley chuckled. That insufferable little chuckle made Dean's blood boil, but still he kept his hands in his pockets. He watched as Crowley sat down on the velvet couch and sipped his drink.

'Dean, Dean, Dean, you're small fry. You're a nobody,' Crowley explained, as if he was talking to a five year old.

'It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog,' Dean explained in turn. Crowley laughed. That was alright. Dean didn't expect him to get it. After all, Crowley had always been a big dog. The big dog was frowning now.

'You'll lose.'

Dean shrugged. 'I'm used to it' wasn't the best response, so he didn't say anything. It was true, though. He could handle losing. Crowley, on the other hand, was familiar with the word, but not the feeling. Dean would bet that the fucker thought that he was invincible. Time to prove him wrong. Crowley shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

'How's your brother?'

Ah, finally a slightly less vague threat. That was Dean's cue. He allowed Crowley to enjoy the moment for a few seconds, before he pulled the gun out of his pocket and shot Crowley in the leg. The silencer worked nicely. There was only a muffled crack. More akin to the sound of someone bumping into a chair than the sound of a gun being fired.

With a bewildered expression on his face that Dean would cherish for the rest of his life, Crowley slumped off the couch. He clutched his bleeding leg. Dean checked his right hand. It felt fine. Maybe it would have felt different without gloves. Now it felt fine.

'That...' Crowley paused to release a deep, shuddering breath before continuing, '...was a huge mistake.' It sounded as if he was in a lot of pain. Good, Dean thought. He walked up to the wounded man. Weakly, Crowley lifted his head to look at him. Dean didn't get too close; he didn't want to get blood on his shoes.

'I will take you down,' Dean simply said. Then he put the gun on the side table, next to Crowley's empty glass, and walked away.


	23. Unsatisfied

**Chapter 23: Unsatisfied**

His hands were not shaking, which Dean guessed was good. His heart was racing like crazy, though. He wriggled a cap out of his other pocket. Quickly, he put the cap on and pulled it down over his eyes before exiting the apartment. There was no one in the hallway.

The walk to the stairs had never seemed so long and the urge to run was strong, but he resisted it. In a brisk pace, still not encountering anyone, he descended to the parking garage. There were a few people out and about. A couple was arguing about their dog and a woman was cleaning her dirty windshield, but none of them paid any attention to Dean.

He waited until Crowley's apartment building was out of sight and then plucked Bobby's phone out of his pocket. It was weird how much Bobby knew about this stuff. Not that Dean didn't appreciate it, but it did make him wonder what Bobby actually did for a living. You didn't pick up this kind of knowledge fixing cars. It was a question for another day. Maybe.

'Hi. It went well. Thanks again for lending me your car. Give him one last dose and you can go,' Dean cryptically said. Bobby sighed, because there was no need for instructions. They had discussed everything in detail. Still, Dean liked to pretend. It was something Sam did all the time. You treated whatever was going on like a game and that made it seem less real.

Otherwise, Dean had to accept the fact that he'd just shot someone and that he'd enjoyed it. And he'd basically kidnapped another guy and kept him drugged for a week. With drugs that Pamela had provided and with the help from Bobby. Two of his friends were now accomplices to crimes Dean had committed. So yeah, pretending seemed pretty good right now.

'Don't you think it's about time you tell your brother what you're up to?' Bobby suggested. Now it was Dean's turn to sigh. He was already feeling bad about a host of things and a lot of them had to do with Sam. Not involving Sam in this was the right thing to do; Dean was sure of it. Leaving Sam so shortly after John had died wasn't. Not preparing Sam for what was going to happen also wasn't, but Dean couldn't think of a better way to handle it. Pamela would take care of Sam.

'He's not a very good liar. I'll tell him everything when we get back. Bye.'

While he waited for the light to turn green, he turned off the phone and took out the little card, before slipping them both back into his pocket. That probably wasn't necessary, but better safe than sorry, right? He crossed the road. Sirens were sounding not far off. Approximately seven minutes had passed since he had shot Crowley.

A blue Ford was parked slightly off the curb and Dean got behind the wheel. Castiel smiled at him from the passenger seat and Dean leaned in and kissed him. It was a short kiss, because they both knew they needed to get the hell out of there.

'Sin City, here we come,' Dean said. Castiel smiled again, but this time Dean noticed that it wasn't exactly a happy smile. It was forced. Well, we have about nine hours to talk about it, Dean thought. That should be enough time to clear up what's bothering him.

(***)

After four hours of driving, they parked at the side of the road. The original plan was to pause for fifteen minutes to eat something, stretch their legs and switch seats, with the added bonus of giving Dean an opportunity to turn on the phone. It transformed into something else when Dean picked up the phone without checking caller id.

'Did you shoot Crowley?'

Oh fuck, Sam. Dean held a finger to his lips to signal to Castiel that he should be quiet. Not that Castiel had uttered a word during the ride, but Dean needed to do something to feel like he was in control of the situation. Castiel reacted by putting some distance between them, maybe thinking that Dean wanted privacy.

'Hello to you too,' he replied in a light, banter-y tone that didn't entirely succeed.

'Did you shoot him?' Sam repeated.

Dean wished and prayed that Sam had had the presence of mind not to call from his apartment or with his cell. Did payphones still exist? Dean tried to think when he had last seen one, but he couldn't. What was he thinking anyway? This was Bobby's phone, so Sam must have talked to him and gotten something out of him. Hopefully, Bobby had explained enough to make Sam understand the severity of the situation, but not enough to make him really worried.

'It was _your _suggestion.'

'Dude, this is not fucking funny. He called the police. It made the news and everything. What the hell? Where are you?'

Sam sounded positively panicked now. That reminded Dean again of the fact that he was a truly shitty brother, especially because he then couldn't think of something to say. _I got a little carried away _could be seen as admitting that he had indeed shot Crowley: never a smart thing to admit. _It's better if you don't know_ would piss off Sam. So, Dean kept quiet. When Sam realised that an answer wasn't going to come, he sighed wearily.

'Just... whatever you're doing, please be careful,' he asked. Dean assured him that he would, which prompted a long silence.

'Bye,' Sam finally said. He ended the call before Dean could respond. The fifteen minutes were up, so Dean turned off the phone. He took place in the car. Passenger seat this time, since it was Castiel's turn to drive. They had parked under a street light and left the head lights on, but it was pitch black around them.

When Castiel returned to the car, he seemed to sense that something was off, because he spent a few minutes scrutinising Dean's face. Then he reached for Dean's belt and unbuckled it. It wasn't until he was unzipped and ready to go that Dean stopped Castiel when he was about to bend forward.

'I want to kiss you,' he whispered and Castiel nodded. Dean clicked off the tiny light above the rear view mirror and their lips found each other in the dark. Cars were prime make out spots when you were a teenager. Not so much when you were in your twenties. That didn't explain the rotten atmosphere, though. Physical discomfort was something Dean could deal with easily. The headrest was preventing him from leaning back; whatever. His knee bumped against the gearshift; who cares?

It was Castiel who was tripping him up. At first, Dean thought it was Castiel's 'I will suck your dick, if it makes you feel better' attitude that was cooling his desire. It was wrong wrong wrong, but it kind of turned Dean on.

It was how into it and at the same time absentminded Castiel seemed. His kisses were hungry and it was Castiel who pressed for more and who allowed Dean to thrust into his fist. But it was also Castiel who was nowhere to be found. It didn't matter how hard Dean kissed him back and how roughly he tugged on Castiel's hair; it was like Castiel didn't even notice.

Castiel lowered his head to Dean's cock and all Dean could think was, hell no. If he was going to get sucked by Castiel's pretty mouth, Castiel was damn well going to be there. He tensed and Castiel looked up. His facial expression instantly infuriated Dean, because it was shame. Fucking shame.

'What the fuck is up with you?' Dean growled.

'You should get rid of your cell,' Castiel mumbled, looking past Dean's shoulder. Dean stared at him. That was bullshit.

'In case the cops use it to triangulate my position or some such shit, you mean? No.'

As if to ensure that Dean couldn't ask him any more questions, Castiel resumed kissing him. His hands manipulated Dean's dick, massaged his balls, trying desperately to get him off, but nothing seemed to work. Dean didn't quite know what to feel. He kept flashing back to that day in the park; Castiel tossing his phone in the trashcan and what followed. Eventually, he pushed Castiel away.

'You're distracted and I'm distracted, so let's not,' Dean said. He rummaged in the bag by his feet until he found the book. Ignoring the tense silence, he read the back. It was a pleasant surprise when the book turned out not to be a novel, but a collection of poetry: _Strangers and Strays _by George Marron. Dean frowned at the name, but decided to let it go for now.

Opening the book on a random page, he started to read.

_Unsatisfied_

_I'm sure it's very unhealthy_

_The way I barely eat_

_How I waste away the hours before we meet_

_I'm sure I'm doing it wrong_

_My kisses too eager and too long_

_I'm sure you could love me better_

_But you don't_

Dean turned the page, expecting more. That was it. He reread the poem and decided it wasn't bad. It wasn't in the same league as W.H. Auden, but then again what was? His eyes were getting tired, so he flipped to the front and read the dedication. Kind of creepy in light of the poem he'd just read.

'To my brother, Gabriel.'


	24. Viva Las Vegas

**Chapter 24: Viva Las Vegas**

'I get Marron. I guess she got married. But I'm a little fuzzy on the George-part. Who names their daughter George?' Dean said, tucking the book away, while Castiel started the car.

'Her name's Georgia. Pamela told me that female authors often change their first name or just use their initials, because some people don't like to read something written by a woman. I find that a disturbing idea, but apparently there's some truth in it. By the way, you're right about the last name, I think,' Castiel explained. He stared straight ahead, staying focused on the road. To a fault, Dean thought. He watched while Castiel elaborated and noted how Castiel didn't look at him once the entire time.

'Georgia left home to study abroad. While there, I assume she married a man named Marron, which is French for brown.'

'Like the phony last name Gabriel used,' Dean pointed out, as if Castiel didn't already know. Since the fake Finney fiasco, they had been operating on separate levels. Dean had mostly worked with Bobby on the Crowley and fake Finney problem and Castiel had teamed up with Pamela to locate Gabriel's sister.

'Yes. The trail dries up there, but at some point she must have returned to America,' Castiel continued. There were many things about this whole revenge plan that Dean didn't like – getting to shoot Crowley had been a rare high point – but Dean held a special contempt for all the vagueness. I think, I assume, she must have: those were an awful lot of assumptions.

'Do we know _anything_ for sure?' he groaned. Castiel shifted in his seat and took this opportunity to not look at Dean some more.

'Gabriel definitely has a sister called Georgia and he told Andrew that she is a writer,' Castiel summed up. Sister. Georgia. Writer. That didn't seem like a lot to go on. Suddenly, something occurred to Dean. It was a thing that he'd rather not have had occur to him, but there it was.

Andrew and Gabriel weren't friends. As far as Dean could tell, Gabriel hadn't had any friends. So, they were simply an editor and a journalist.

'What if Gabriel lied to Andrew?' Dean asked. Now Castiel glanced at him. His expression was as good as saying 'Huh, I'd almost forgotten that that's what people do to each other.' Disheartened, he raked his hand through his hair and sighed.

'Then we have nothing.'

'And on the off chance that we're right, we get to tell Georgia that her brother got murdered. I just love our options.'

(***)

The city was different than Dean had imagined it. Not that he had spent a huge amount of time daydreaming about Las Vegas, but somehow he had formed a picture of it in his mind. That picture didn't correspond to reality, at all.

Vegas was depressing. Maybe it was because they arrived while it was still dark, though night seemed like the perfect time to enjoy the seedy atmosphere. Dean suspected that daylight would only provide better lighting for what looked like a real hellhole.

Castiel kind of half-groaned, half-yawned as they explored their surroundings. It was warm. Too warm. The lights in the distance shimmered unsteadily because of the heat. The ground was dry. The air they breathed was humid and hot.

It was all very boulevard of broken dreams-ish. Vegas certainly looked like a perfect spot for one of those horrible aspiring-actress-accepts-that-she-is-going-to-wait-tables-or-worse-for-the-rest-of-her-life movies. It reeked of desperation. So, this is where dreams go to die, Dean thought.

They booked a room using one of Bobby's phony IDs. The guy at the reception didn't give them lip, which was a good thing. If someone pissed had Dean off, he would have started throwing punches. He had decided that the temperature justified any and all violence in the face of the mildest provocation.

Putting aside the distance that had developed between then, Dean granted Castiel's renewed request and they had sex. Standing up, against the fugly wallpaper, without removing any of their clothes; just shoving their jeans and underwear down. Afterwards, they fell into bed, exhausted. The strain of the last week had finally caught up with them.

(***)

In the morning, Dean realised that their doomed-to-fail plan had unfairly coloured his opinion of Vegas the night before. It wasn't that bad. Yes, he found himself waiting to be locked in the trunk of some gangster's car, driven out to the desert and wacked, but really, what big city didn't inspire that feeling? Or was that not a normal feeling?

Shrugging, Dean brushed his teeth. Castiel hadn't slept well. Consequently, his behaviour was a mixture of hostile and irritated. It was kind of like having the original recipe Castiel back, but with an extra cranky edge.

'You ready?'

'Fuck you.'

That brought a smile to Dean's face. Yep, just like old times. They headed out into the blistering heat. Shimmer, shimmer, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth and so on.

Georgia turned out to be a plain-looking, Buffy-sized woman with a snarky attitude. She reminded Dean of Pamela. He immediately liked her. Her hair was blond, almost white, and she barely glanced at their bogus journalistic credentials before allowing them inside.

They spun a line about composing an article about poets and their families. She tensed. Her parents were dead, she said. Dean, trying to appear writerly, jotted that down in his notebook.

_Parents dead. Car crash. Four years ago._

'Any siblings?'

_A younger brother. Gabriel._

'Married?'

_Divorced. Nicholas Marron. Met him overseas. Didn't work out._

'Mind if we ask why you kept your husband's name?'

_Still loves him. Can't give love and can't accept it either. Never learned how._

Dean looked up. She was smoking, calm and collected, as if she hadn't just bared her soul to complete strangers. He glanced at Castiel, who was looking about as surprised as Dean felt. Clearing his throat, he asked why that was.

'I didn't have a happy childhood.'

'You care to elaborate on that?'

'No.'

He decided to let that slide. After all, they weren't really here to dig into her life. Though, if Georgia's childhood had been unhappy, maybe Gabriel's had also been crappy. That could explain his lack of friends.

'Are you close to your brother?'

How could she be? Dude had been dead for months now and she was sitting here, talking about him as if he was still alive. For the first time, there was a trace of emotion in her voice.

'No, not really. He isn't very good at keeping in touch. Well, I'm not either, I suppose.'

That's regret, Dean thought. He might be wrong, though. He was very good at being wrong. He had been identifying with her like crazy. Unpleasant childhood, parents out of the picture, younger brother, but her relationship with Gabriel was clearly nothing like Dean's relationship with Sam. Shaking it off, he continued.

'When did you move back here?'

_Four years ago. That's when parents died. Coincidence?_

'Why not to California? Did...' Dean hesitated, not wanting to be rude, but pushed through all the same, 'Did Gabriel inherit the house?'

_She let him have everything._

'He wrote for the Stanford Daily too,' Dean informed her, wincing at his slip. Of course, she could simply take it to mean that Gabriel didn't work there anymore. Georgia laughed.

'Gabriel? He is no journalist. If he is anything, he's an actor,' she protested.

'He was working on an article about fraud. Fraud in construction, to be precise,' Castiel offered. They watched her closely, but she didn't seem to know what they were referring to. Disbelief was etched all over her face.

'Why? To expose someone? To right wrongs? I have a hard time imagining Gabe in that role. For fun; yes. He likes to stir up trouble. I always told him that was dangerous, but he never listened,' she mumbled. It was directed more at herself, like a recounting of fond memories, than at them.

_Liked to cause trouble. _

Gabe, like Sammy. Dean was back in that place of empathy and wondering whether they should just come clean and tell her.

'He used an alias when he went undercover. Gabriel Brown.'

Georgia scrutinised Castiel and then Dean. Without taking her eyes off them, she got to her feet and told them that she was going to grab an ashtray. When she returned, she had a gun.

'Using my name, that's a little sentimental. Gabriel isn't sentimental. At all. Who are you two? 'Cause you sure as hell ain't working for the Stanford Daily.'

'He's dead. Gabriel is dead,' Dean confessed. To his relief, she lowered the gun. Georgia told them to stay seated, while she reinstalled herself in her chair. The gun remained firmly in her hand. She gestured for Dean to continue.

'He was investigating Crowley.'

She showed no sign of recognising the name.

'Crowley's a corrupt contractor, putting bad steel into buildings to make a profit. Castiel designed the condos and I helped to built them. We both got hurt when one of the beams broke. Other people have died since. Gabriel really was working for the Stanford Daily and he was investigating the case. He was murdered by one of Crowley's men. Shot in the back of the head,' Dean explained.

'Why didn't I read about this in the paper?'

'Because the police don't know that Gabriel Brown was actually Gabriel Richards. And they think Gabriel was an interior decorator. Also, they either don't know about the fraud or are helping to cover it up.'

That sounded so fucking paranoid and insane. Conspiracy theories didn't lend themselves to being voiced. Nonetheless, Georgia nodded, a blank look in her eyes.

'So, Gabe's dead?'

'Yeah, I... We saw him.'

She took the hit like a champ. She nodded and put down the gun. Dean breathed a little easier when he realised that she wasn't going to shoot the messenger.

'And what do you want from me?' she asked. Her voice was super, scarily cold. They hastily explained about the drawing plans and how they hoped that Gabriel might have sent her copies. He hadn't. Fucking fucking fuck. She had no idea where he might have hid them if he'd ever had any. They asked her about possible friends, but he really had none. Being bad at relationship apparently ran in the family.

They asked her if anything weird had happened recently. Things inexplicably not being where she'd left them. That sort of thing. Georgia couldn't think of anything. Finally, they gave her the number of Bobby's phone, in case something occurred to her later. Fat chance, Dean thought. Vegas was proving to be a real downer.

(***)

Back in the hotel room, they took a shower and went over their talk with Georgia. The longer Dean thought about it, the weirder it seemed. She had been so calm. It wasn't natural. Castiel suggested shock, but that didn't satisfy Dean.

'We tell her that her brother was murdered and she doesn't even blink? That's not shock. Lady's got ice in her veins, if you ask me,' Dean said. He was getting riled up, because... Sam. He was drawing parallels all over the place between their situations.

'They were estranged. Not like you and Sam. More like you and your father.'

Castiel's voice was uncharacteristically soft. It was the 'I care' one, which he rarely used. It was an odd combination with his 'I'm checking out and shutting down' face. Dean frowned. When he tried to make eye contact, Castiel averted his eyes. The architect had turned a whiter shade of pale. To boot, he looked ashamed. What the fuck?

'You don't think... That had nothing to do with you. Believe me: it wasn't Crowley,' Dean objected. Was that what had been standing between them? His dead deadbeat father? Epic fail on Dean's part, by the way. He hadn't explained to Castiel how John had died, because, well, he hadn't seen the need. It fit right into Castiel's guilt complex to assume that Crowley was responsible for it. Dean sighed.

'I told you that my father beat me, right? Well, he hit Sam too. When I found out about that, we were gone and John was out of punching bags. So, he took to trolling bars. Picking fights. Soon after that, he picked a guy that turned out to be a little bigger and a little less drunk than he had counted on. The guy slugged him once. Caused some severe brain damage. John was never the same again. Even less impulse control, zero long term thinking, could barely look after himself. At least, that's what the doctors told Sam. I never... I didn't visit him. Just signed on the dotted line and put him in one of those assisted living homes. He carried on exactly like before. The man had a falling out with just about everyone. It was only a matter of time before it happened again. John finally picked the wrong guy.'

Castiel looked sceptical, which was to be expected. God knew what Crowley had said to make him stay. Framing him for the faulty condos couldn't be the sole thing that had kept Castiel from running or fighting back.

'There's no doubt in my mind, Cas. I saw the guy who did it. Just a kid. They charged him with manslaughter. He was so fucking sorry it hurt. John being a dick for the last time; that's all it was. I swear. This wasn't your fault. Okay?'

He got a nod. It was like one of Georgia's nods. Castiel didn't lose the look of shame either. Dean turned away, tired. He was so tired. Bobby's phone rang.

'You're on the news. You shot Crowley?' Georgia asked. She sounded amused and a little sad. Dean said that he could neither confirm nor deny that.

'Nice move,' she whispered, before hanging up. He turned on the TV. There was a warrant out for his arrest. Police have reason to believe that he's fled the state. Suspect is armed and dangerous. If you see him... Castiel blocked the screen and turned off the TV.

'Wanna empty the mini bar?' he asked. Did Dean ever.

(***)

A lot of tiny bottles of alcohol later. Castiel was lying naked on the bed, distracting Dean from the list he was making.

'Broke my wrist. Both my arms. Ribs, of course. One of my hands. This one, I think, the middle finger doesn't bend the way it's supposed to. My leg once. Still don't know how he managed that.'

'What about the cigarette marks?' Castiel asked, tracing them lightly with his fingertips.

'That was Crowley,' Dean replied. Castiel looked ashamed again. What for? That was long before Dean even knew that Castiel existed. Castiel kissed the burn marks and sat up straight. He swayed slightly from side to side. His blue eyes were cloudy.

'He promised me he wouldn't hurt you. After. In the hospital. All I had to do was stay with him and pretend. If I tried to commit suicide again, you'd die. If I left, you'd die. Everything I do ends with you dead,' Castiel rambled. Dean attempted to focus, but there was one Castiel with another one blurrily drawn over him, as if someone had coloured outside of the lines.

'I heard you, on the phone. Is that what made you step in front of that bus?'

'No, Crowley said that you were part of it. I didn't believe it and then I did. I behaved like an asshole and you still took care of me. Who does that? How are you even real?' Castiel softly murmured.

'I...' Dean said, but he was shushed. Castiel nosed askew, stiff fingers and followed invisible fracture lines with his tongue. Dean wanted cock. Thick, throbbing cock inside of him. Stretching him open and filling him up. Riding him hard and rough. Fucking him like he'd never been fucked before.

What he got instead was a level of intimacy they had lacked lately. Little licks and caresses for minutes on end. A tongue that, yes, slipped inside of him, but darted just as quickly away over his thighs. Then, suddenly, a finger thrust into his moist heat. And another finger and finally Castiel's sweet cock.

Teasing at the entrance and sliding in. Sliding and sliding, every inch a delicious struggle, while Dean fought a war of his own. He wanted to take in more, right now, but forced himself to endure the slow torture. Wished that Castiel had two cocks, so that Dean could suck him off while being fucked by him.

When they moved, it was vulgar and perfect. A feast of clenching and thrusting. Dean bucked, taking Castiel in deeper and loving it. His eyes closed, thoughts of his own tight, slick hole being pounded raw by Castiel's cock overwhelmed him. Who knew love could feel like this?

Vegas was alright. It was better than California at any rate.

(***)

At fifteen years old, Dean had gotten his last beating. He'd forgotten to buy milk. While John hit him, he'd thought about how much he hated his father. Man, Dean hated him. He had fantasised about killing him all the fucking time. Eventually his father had offered the usual post-beating apology. That was when Dean had turned on him. He could have killed him. He nearly did. He remembered what he'd said afterwards, reigning himself in with difficulty.

'If you touch me again or Sam at all, ever, I will kill you.'

That was the moment Dean couldn't forgive his father for. Not the fact that John had gone ahead and beaten Sam despite the warning. That was just John. Not the fact that Dean had hurt his brother too when he'd found out. That one was on Dean. No, he blamed his father for the moment when he had realised that not stopping was an option. That the willingness to kill was inside of him.

Ever since, Dean had lived with that knowledge. His whole life he had lived in fear of becoming like his father. Now, Dean might not be a nice person, but he was _good_. Castiel had said as much last night. Dean had known that helping Castiel was stupid and that he'd fall for him and that it would be bad, but he'd done it anyway.

With a gravelly hum, Castiel woke up. His stubble chafed Dean's shoulder. It was kind of sexy. Groaning, he eyed Dean.

'Vegas was a bust,' Dean agreed, adding, 'Except for us getting married, of course.'

Castiel stared at him, disturbed and bleary eyed, trying to remember. Dean took pity on him. It wasn't fair to mess with someone who was barely awake.

'Just kidding,' he admitted. Castiel smiled. A lazy, carefree smile. Their return to California all-but forgotten. He leaned in and kissed Dean, before burying his face in Dean's chest. His lips tickled Dean's flesh.

'You know, I wouldn't have minded if that were true.'


End file.
